


Oubliette

by LeetheT



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:30:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was my first posted MFU story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oubliette

October 17

 

Illya Kuryakin stared at the New York skyline outside Mr. Waverly’s windows, seeing not buildings but the vast distance that lay between where he was and where he needed to be. Needed with a need so strong he had to clench his hands against the windowsill to hold himself in place. Not that it mattered; it might have been three miles, or three million, instead of three thousand. It was too far and too late to do anything but wait for the word, but he was sick with knowing he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, where he _had_ to be.

Mr. Waverly sat at his console. The communicator beeped and he flipped the switch.

“Waverly.”

“Yes sir. This is Georges Vernet, acting head of Section Two, Paris.”

“Report, M. Vernet,” Waverly said curtly. “I’ve heard the rumors; give me the facts, if you have them.”

Illya turned around, stared at the communications panel as the French-accented voice said:

“Paris office regrets to confirm three agents killed at DeGaulle Airport when a bomb planted in their car exploded. Mm. St. Clair and LeConte, of our Paris office, and M. Solo.”

Waverly sank a little in his chair, aged a decade instantly, but his voice was as authoritative as ever.

“Absolutely confirmed, M. Vernet?”

“Yes sir. Our pathology lab verified all three men’s identities. The data will be sent to New York immediately. We are investigating the source of the bomb; it looks like THRUSH handiwork, but beyond that we don’t yet know. There ... there was not a great deal left, sir.”

“Sir,” Illya said, stepping forward. “Request permission to assist in the investigation.”

“Request denied,” Waverly said without even looking up. “The Paris office are perfectly capable of handling this. Are you not, M. Vernet?”

“Yes sir. Any further orders?” Vernet asked.

“No. Keep me fully posted.”

“Yes sir.  My condolences, sir. I worked with M. Solo. I’m very sorry to lose him.”

“So are we, M. Vernet. Waverly out.” Mr. Waverly flicked the switch off and stared at the machine for a long moment.

Illya watched him, feeling himself trembling, his mind racing, touching every possibility except that this could be true. Before he could repeat his request, Mr. Waverly scowled up at him.

“Mr.  ... Kuryakin ... I, ah, appreciate how difficult this must be for you ...”

Illya stared at his superior, blankly, found himself blurting, “Do you, sir?”

Ignoring the impertinence, Mr. Waverly hesitated.

“Perhaps not. Nevertheless you realize I must ask you now to take over Mr. Solo’s duties, pending permanent promotion to the position of chief enforcement agent.”

Illya bit his tongue, wanting to rage, to shout at Mr. Waverly — to shout that Napoleon wasn’t even cold yet. That Napoleon _wasn’t_ dead, that he wouldn’t believe it until he could see the body, that he didn’t want to be CEA. That all he wanted was to work at his partner’s side. _That all I want is my partner back._

Teeth clenched, Illya said, “Sir, I really think I might be of some use in Paris. I do have—”

“I know you have, Mr. Kuryakin. The Paris forensics team is one of our best, worldwide. I think they are capable of doing their job. Are you capable of doing yours?” Those cool grey eyes fixed him, merciless.

Illya stiffened. “Yes sir.”

“Good.” Mr. Waverly opened the file folder on his desk. “Now, as it appears Mr. Solo had no cases demanding immediate attention ... “ He flipped idly through the pages, “and given that you’ve suffered something of a shock ...”

Illya scowled. Where was Mr. Waverly — who traditionally had no patience with human frailty — headed with this?

“And that you do have some leave accrued ...” The chief of Section One glanced up, one brow raised. “Perhaps you might like to take a few days off before plunging into your new duties.”

Illya took in a long-overdue breath. “Yes sir.” He spun on his heel, headed for the door, the airport, Paris, and — damn it — Napoleon.

“Mr. Kuryakin,” Mr. Waverly said. Illya paused at the door, half-turned.

“Good luck.”

The door closed behind him and Illya broke into a run.

vvv

Dr. Beverly Monmouth did not turn from the one-way glass when she heard the door open behind her. The man stopped just inside, waited a moment, then, when it became clear she would not turn around:

“UNCLE New York has received confirmation of three agents killed in Paris.”

She nodded, eyes still on the motionless form in the bed of the room beyond. Before her ranged a bank of monitors measuring various bodily functions. On the counter in front of the monitors sat a thick folder messily crammed with notes, next to a full ashtray and an empty pack of cigarettes.

“Autopsy?” she said, stubbing out her last smoke and recrossing her arms.

“Routine,” he replied. “But we’re gambling it will be done in Paris, not New York.”

“So?”

“We have ... a friend in the Paris office.”

“Impressive,” she said.  He advanced to stand beside her; they were the same height.

“When will you begin?” he asked.

She sighed. She had very little patience with any of these men. Thugs. This one, Edgar, was simply the chief thug. How many times had she told this idiot that the process was neither swift nor sure?

“I’ve started,” she said.

When she added nothing, he said, “I need to report to Central on our progress. Those names are very important.”

“The first phase is begun. It will be some time before we can bring him to consciousness and begin the second phase. Central was told this was not a speedy process. There is nothing else to tell them at this time. Will there be any trouble from UNCLE? An investigation?”

“Again, it’s routine. But nothing likely to reach us.”

“The bomber? Your friend in the Paris office?”

“We’ve laid false trails. Even if they lead to our associates, we’ve taken care they’ll lead no further.”

“And everything else?”

He nodded toward the man in the bed. “The vents have been modified. And our own ... Mr. Waverly will be ready when he wakes up.”

“UNCLE must be in widow’s weeds,” she remarked, looking at the man in the bed. “I should like to see it.”

Edgar shrugged. “Agents die all the time.”

“Even the best ones?” she asked tonelessly.

“No agent is perfect, doctor,” he said. “That’s what we’re betting on with him.” He nodded toward the one-way glass. “And with your boyfriend’s little carnival trick.”

She picked up the cigarette pack. “Go away, Edgar. I need to get back to work.” She reached one red-painted nail deep into the pack, found it empty, crushed it and threw it into the trash.

Edgar smirked. “I’ll have someone bring you cigarettes, doctor. And a fresh ashtray.”

He left, her scorn needling him between the shoulder blades.

 

October 19

 

Illya’s eyes glazed over as he looked at the autopsy report. What details there were — old injuries, dental implants, transponders, suicide pills — confirmed that it was indeed his partner’s body. He’d examined the car — what was left of it — and the scene at the airport, had read all the witnesses’ reports, leaving the most irrefutable data to the last, like a man refusing to close his eyes to sleep until exhausted, for fear of nightmares.

He lowered the folder to the table, still unable to focus.

“I’m sorry,” Vernet said. “There wasn’t much left.” He opened a drawer, pulled out an envelope and emptied the contents into Illya’s unsteady hand. Illya blinked down at the three tiny items. Monogrammed cufflinks and a gold pinky ring.

Vernet watched Illya, head bowed, close his trembling hand around the items and shut his eyes. Vernet swallowed, backed toward the door. “I’m sorry.” He turned and left the office, closing the door behind him. As he walked away the head of the forensics team, Lesseps, came toward him.

“I have the report on the bomb. Definitely THRUSH. Old school, though, the sort Hague used to make in the ‘50s. Remember him?” He glanced at the office door. “Do you want me to give it to M. Kuryakin?”

Vernet shook his head. “Not right now. Let him alone for a while.”

Lesseps nodded. “I see. Well, I suppose the famous Solo luck had to run out sometime.”

Vernet glared at the forensics man. “Say that in front of Kuryakin and I’ll let him kill you.”

Lesseps’ jaw dropped. “I didn’t mean anything—”

“Just give me the report and go on back to finding out who did this, will you?” Vernet grabbed the folder and waved Lesseps away.

He snorted as he thumbed through the file. Lab men. They had no idea what it meant to have a partner. They had no idea what the loss of a man like Solo meant to UNCLE. And no one, Vernet thought with a glance at the door, had any idea what that loss meant to Kuryakin. No one but Kuryakin.

 

October 26

 

Illya Kuryakin looked out across the city of New York — his adopted home, now a vast alien landscape that had lost any allure it once had. It had taken this to realize that home, for him, was beside his partner. Nothing now tied him to this place, this job, this world except the stubborn thread of disbelief that refused to accept that Napoleon was dead.

Not because of Napoleon’s phenomenal luck, his uncanny ability to pull himself safely from certain disaster; not even because of the special bond they shared, which Illya felt would have told him if his partner were truly dead. He couldn’t believe it, quite simply, because he couldn’t. To allow that idea to take root, to become a reality, would be the end of him. There would be no going on without Napoleon. Not for him.

Even the chance that he might be gone, the chance that Illya might not find him, had sucked all the joy out of life. For Illya now it was work, and work only so that he might still use UNCLE’s resources to keep searching for some hint about what really had happened that day at DeGaulle.

The French team was, indeed, superb. Within days they’d had a lead on the manufacturer of the bomb. Unfortunately the elderly former THRUSH associate, Hague, was already dead by the time UNCLE located him in a cottage in Provence. As to who had planted it and when, the vehicle hadn’t been out of UNCLE’s hands or sight from its last maintenance to the explosion, and anyone who could have had his or her hands on the car in the interim checked out clean. If the two French agents had left the car unattended for a while, to eat or use a bathroom or even to greet Solo on the tarmac at DeGaulle — there was no one to tell about it now.

Vernet had seen Illya to the airport, wisely saying nothing until Illya was about to board. He’d shaken the French agent’s hand and Vernet had said:

“I’ll keep looking.”

Those three words generated the first trickle of comfort the Russian had felt. He’d pressed the agent’s had more warmly, thanked him, and returned to New York, prepared to do what he had to in order to do what he must.

 

November 20

 

The door slid open. Mr. Waverly glanced up.

“Come in, Mr. Kuryakin. I—”

Then he looked up again, taking in the gaunt face, the haunted eyes, the shaggy hair, the clothes no more rumpled than usual but hanging on a frame that had lost weight it couldn’t afford to lose.

Mr. Waverly’s reprimand fled on seeing the manifestation of what Kuryakin was going through. Gentle words came unbidden.

“Please sit down, Mr. Kuryakin.”

Wary, Illya hesitated, then slid into the chair opposite his boss.

“How can I help you?” Mr. Waverly said.

Kuryakin could, sometimes, be so bold as to make his late partner seem a reticent wallflower. This was one of those times.

“Let me find Napoleon’s killers.”

Mr. Waverly, if surprised, didn’t show it.

“I appreciate your desire for vengeance, but I need you on more important matters.”

“More important than the murder of your best agent?”

“Anything you might learn, while possibly edifying, will not bring Mr. Solo back,” Mr. Waverly said, again more gently than he’d meant to. “You would do better to simply carry on the battle for which he gave his life.”

The point, valid, touched Illya’s grief, but stood no chance of penetrating it. He simply waited.

Mr. Waverly sighed. “You have been acting CEA for five weeks. It’s time to make the position permanent.”

Illya carefully sorted his options, seeking the least emotional, most effective reply.

“Is it necessary?” he asked.

Mr. Waverly’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Not strictly speaking. It’s a matter of formalizing practice.”

Without much hope, Illya said, “And what influence will my wishes be allowed in the matter?”

“As you bear all the responsibilities, I should have thought you would wish to have the title — and the pay increase — to go with them.”

Illya straightened in his seat. “The duties aren’t a burden. The title ...” He hesitated. “... is more of a weight than I wish to carry at this time.”

Mr. Waverly harrumphed; again, more mildly than usual.

“Well, it’s a formality. The important part is that the job get done. As long as you’re doing it I don’t see any severe organizational fallout from your not having the title.”

“Thank you.”

“You do realize, however, that there will be ... um ... personal fallout?”

“Sir?”

“People are going to wonder why you haven’t been given the title. They may think I have some doubts about your ability to serve in that capacity permanently.”

 _Or they may think Napoleon isn’t dead_ , Illya thought. _That’s what I want them to think. That’s what I think. What I know. What I have to believe._

_Besides, no one serves as CEA permanently._

He said only, “I can live with gossip, sir.”

Mr. Waverly nodded, said wryly, “Yes, I’d noticed. Very well, we’ll leave it at this for the present.”

 

December 1

 

Waverly continued careful, almost delicate, in his dealings with Illya. Illya knew, for example, that his own insistence on not being named CEA, but remaining as acting CEA, was unheard of. He suspected it was his own hints about returning to Section Five that made Waverly accede to his unusual demands. Because of that Illya continued to drop the hints, not letting on that he would never leave active agent status until he knew Napoleon’s fate for certain. Field work would give him more scope for investigation and making new contacts.

Although so far you’ve failed miserably, he reminded himself.

He knew the outline of the mission Solo was on. Waverly had briefed them both in mid-October.

vvv

“Mr. Solo, we have a very important list for you to carry to our Paris office. It consists of the names and codenames of our double agents, some of them within THRUSH.”

Illya and Napoleon exchanged a glance.

“How will I carry the list?”

“In your head, Mr. Solo.”

After a double take, Napoleon smiled. “Illya’s the one with the eidetic memory, sir.”

“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Solo. We’re employing the hypnotechnique developed by Dr. Abernathy.”

“Yes, I remember the report on that,” Napoleon mused. Illya shot him a look. Napoleon hadn’t actually read the report; Illya, who had, had given him a verbal precis.

“Has it been tested?” Illya put in.

Waverly gave him a cool glare. “I realize that I regularly remind you gentlemen you’re not indispensible, but please disabuse yourself of the notion that I would send my chief enforcement agent out as a guinea pig.”

“Sorry sir,” Illya said, chastened. Napoleon shot him a quick grin that said, _Thanks for thinking of me_.

Mollified, Waverly held a match over his pipe bowl. “We’ve tested this technique with several couriers carrying harmless data. Two of them fell into THRUSH’s hands.”

“What happened?” Illya had asked.

“No data were compromised,” Waverly said, blank as a concrete wall. He lit his pipe.

Napoleon translated to his partner, in a sidelong mutter, “The operation was a success, but the patient died.”

“Am I to go along as backup?” Illya said blandly.

“No. The two of you have three mission reports overdue. One of you has to stay here and finish them — and Mr. Solo’s version of events always gives me a headache.”

Illya tried again. “But ... if the data are as important as this ...”

Even Napoleon raised an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic argument.

“I’m sure Mr. Solo is capable of taking care of himself, Mr. Kuryakin. After all, that is what we pay him for. Dismissed.”

Outside Waverly’s office, Napoleon said, “What was that all about?”

Illya shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t like the sound of this.”

Napoleon grinned. “You just don’t like having to sit in this steel coffin and type while I’m enjoying the City of Light.”

Illya merely looked at him, saying nothing. Napoleon elbowed him gently.

“Come on. It’s a courier mission. Just like a thousand others.” He scowled. “It isn’t like you to worry like this.”

“No, I usually worry in a completely different way,” Illya said, shaking his head, trying to shake off the gloom. “Never mind. You’re probably right. I’m just jealous.”

“I’ll bring you back a toy,” Napoleon said, straight-faced.

Illya matched his tone. “Knowing your definition of the word — how will you get her through Customs?”

Napoleon chuckled, clapped his partner on the shoulder. “I’d better go get hypnotized. Au revoir.”

vvv

And that was that.

Illya had been to see Dr. Abernathy, developer of the hypnotechnique.

He was a thin, balding man with the squint and slight stoop of the eternal lab scientist. He eyed Illya with some uneasiness which he explained was due to a deep-seated fear of firearms.

Illya sat on a lab stool. “You chose an awkward place to work, then, doctor.”

Abernathy shrugged. “UNCLE had the funding for, and the interest in, my line of work. Many other institutions did not.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about your technique, particularly as regards my partner’s mission to Paris.”

Abernathy’s face clouded over. “Yes. Go ahead, Agent Kuryakin.”

“What exactly did you do?”

“Mr. Solo was hypnotized with my technique to memorize the list of double agents.”

“And your technique differs from traditional hypnotism how?”

“Well, roughly speaking, it broadens the subject’s ability to remember. Even a man with a poor memory can be ... programmed to carry literally thousands of pages of data in his head, all completely retrievable via the correct code phrase, but none of it accessible to him, either consciously or unconsciously, without that phrase. Mr. Solo was hypno-programmed with a list of names and locations. The Paris office created the code phrase, I ... ah ... keyed Mr. Solo to that phrase, and he went.”

“So there would be a reason for THRUSH to kidnap Napoleon? To try to get at the names you “programmed” into his memory?”

“I understood Agent Solo was dead,” Abernathy said nervously.

“Just answer the question.”

Abernathy flinched. “Well ... yes, there would be reason. But not much point. That’s the beauty of my technique. The subject is able to remember an immense amount of data which can only — only — be retrieved by the stimulus of the precise phrase designated by the ... hypnotist. It doesn’t matter what sort of torture, hypnosis, persuasion or trickery someone might try. It doesn’t rely on the subject’s will. The trigger is as near to physiological as it can be; the subject hasn’t any choice, and hasn’t, even under deep ordinary hypnosis, any access to the information. Nothing will trigger its retrieval except the code phrase.”

“Your technique. Does anyone else know how to perform this sort of deep hypno-programming?”

“No. I developed it on my own.”

“You’ve shared your results with no one?”

Abernathy shook his head. “UNCLE forbids it.”

Illya smiled faintly. “I know that. I’m asking you if anyone has any knowledge of your methods or possible countermethods.”

“No.”

“Are there countermethods?”

Abernathy shook his head slowly as he replied. “Only theoretical ones. If you could sufficiently traumatize a hypotized subject’s brain — through direct physical or chemical means, perhaps — you might scramble memory and thoughts to the point that the information could be brought to a surface level and discovered. Probably not under direct questioning, but perhaps under expert hypnosis. You would be far more likely, however, to create a vegetable. Or a corpse.”

“But you know the code phrase?”

“Not exactly.”

“You programmed Napoleon with it,” Illya said, hearing the sharpness in his voice; some part of him obviously wanted to blame Dr. Abernathy. Or somebody. _I want someone to blame. Someone to kill for this._

“Yes. But I certainly don’t remember it, save for bits and pieces. That’s the other beauty of my technique. It was a long passage, several sentences’ worth. Not the sort of thing the average man could remember for long, nor the sort of thing one might stumble upon in seeking the key to unlock the data. It was created in Paris and sent to me. I placed it before Mr. Solo and he read it while under deep hypnosis. He would have recognized it — remembered it if you will — and once it was spoken to him in Paris he would have called up the data and recited it. But if so much as one word were slightly wrong—” Dr. Abernathy cast his hands into the air. “Poof. Nothing. I glanced at the message — I imagine Mr. Waverly saw it as well — but I remember little of it. Even under duress I couldn’t recall it precisely. Mr. Waverly felt it best that the code phrase be seen by as few persons as possible. It is, as you’ve surmised, the weakest link. But by making the phrase long and complex, and relying on simple human failings, we’ve reduced that risk to nearly nothing.”

“Unless you chose to talk,” Illya said.

Dr. Abernathy showed neither offense nor fear. “Yes. Or Mr. Waverly. Or the chief of the Paris office. We are the only three who even glimpsed the message.”

Illya mulled that a moment, while Abernathy watched him.

“Thank you, doctor,” Illya said, sliding off the stool and leaving the lab.

 

December 5

 

A knock drew him to the door. He holstered his gun and opened the door after seeing April through the peephole.

She relocked all the locks and reactivated all the monitoring devices, then followed him into the living room. He’d resumed his position in front of the window. Snow was still coming down; cold radiated in from big glass pane.

“I tried your place,” she said quietly. “When I didn’t find you there I figured you’d be here.”

She watched his back for a moment, then looked around the room. It still hurt to see the familiar setting robbed of its gem. By this time of year Napoleon usually had his apartment elegantly decorated for Christmas, complete with a tree (most of the work done by his ever-willing contingent of female admirers within UNCLE). She noted that the liquor cabinet and record player were both closed up. Illya was denying himself either of those comforts. Perhaps the place itself was comfort enough. Or perhaps there was no comfort, and anything but silence only made it worse.

She walked around in front of him, not too close, needing to see his face as she spoke. He didn’t look at her.

“If I’m intruding, tell me and I’ll go. But I think you need to talk.”

The eyes touched hers, unreadable, glanced her length and shifted away. She looked down herself at the severe black dress she’d worn to the service. She’d no intention of asking why he hadn’t attended, nor of telling him about the memorial, somber, stunned, crowded with those who’d known his partner. But not as Illya had known him.

“I think if you don’t talk to someone, you’ll explode. I don’t want to see that happen. Napoleon wouldn’t either.” That, maybe, was going too far. She had no idea if he would shout, or evade, or deny, or just shove her out the door. He revealed his soul rarely, and then only to his partner. She and Napoleon had talked about it. Despite a genuine desire to see Illya open up — give, and get, more friendship — Napoleon had always treasured his position as the only person the Russian truly trusted.

Trusted, April thought, examining Illya’s face, and loved. What a terrible loss Napoleon’s death had been. It seemed they never reached the bottom of that well of sorrow, and the wailing of the many women he’d romanced was only the surface. April still found herself weeping at odd moments of the day or night, or thinking “what would Napoleon do?” during some hairy mission — then being hammered by the recollection that he was gone. It grieved her all the more to realize Illya’s pain must be far worse, and she didn’t know how to help him, or even if he could be helped.

“I can’t let go,” he said, so softly she almost asked him to repeat the words. He glanced at her again, shook his head. “I can’t let go.”

 _Of him, or of your feelings_ , she was poised to ask, then realized it was both. It was a statement, not yet a plea. Her rational side even had excuses. There had been no body to speak of, only an autopsy report. Any agent — and Illya was more suspicious than most — would have doubts, hopes. They’d been tricked before, myriad ways, though never before had UNCLE’s own forensics people confirmed an agent’s death only to have that turn out to be untrue.

But Illya knew all this. He knew the odds, and he knew the facts.

Looking at him April wondered if there could ever have been a situation in which he would accept and believe that Napoleon was dead. He’d have to see the body, of course, and know it wasn’t a double (that ruse, too, had been tried). April knew she didn’t want to see the moment Illya accepted his partner’s death. Haggard and disturbed as he was, there was life in him, even if it was only the life he needed to find his partner again. She felt sure that spark would be extinguished if Illya truly believed Napoleon dead.

“Then don’t,” she said. He turned a surprised look on her.

“Don’t give up,” she said. “No one would expect you to. Keep digging until you know.”

“One way or the other?” he said, eyes bleak.

“You need to know. You need to believe. You have to do whatever it takes. What’s the alternative? Living in doubt forever?”

“It may come to that,” he said, but April smiled slightly.

“Not a chance. With you? You’ll find out the truth eventually. One way or the other, you’ll find it and know it.”

“I know,” he said, not boasting. Half-whispered came, “I’m ... I’m afraid of that.”

A chill slithered down her spine. She’d never heard him say that before — doubted that anyone had.

She slid her arms around his rigid shoulders and pulled him close. His own arms went around her waist, but it was like embracing a statue. She could feel that there was no hope of Illya releasing his grief, or his fear. It was amazing — a measure of his pain — that he had even spoken to her about it.

“I’m here for you,” she said. “If you need _anything_. Mark and I will help.”

“Thank you,” he said, his tone sincere, but he released her and stepped back, leaving her with the embarrassed impression that he’d felt himself somehow to be comforting _her_ rather than the reverse.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” she said. The corners of his mouth twitched.

“Define ‘foolish’.”

Firmly she said, “Don’t do anything Napoleon wouldn’t want you to do.”

That caught him. She could see the thoughts jostling behind his eyes. Then he said:

“I think I’m doing exactly what he would do.”

April had to admit he was right.

“But if something happens,” she tried one last time, “don’t go rogue on us. Don’t go it alone. Let us help.” She felt safer on that score. Napoleon had never hesitated to call in favors when he needed to.

Illya nodded, keeping his eyes and thoughts on April with a visible effort. She sighed.

“All right. I won’t hound you. But please remember what I said.”

The visible effort intensified. “April, I appreciate your coming like this.”

“You’re not alone, Illya, whatever you may think,” she said — the wrong thing to say. He _was_ alone in his grief, and now alone in the world, in a way Waverly or April or anyone else touched by Napoleon could not imagine.

She squeezed his arm, feeling tears prickle in her eyes, and headed for the door.

“April—”

She stopped, turned. He had half-turned from the window, scowling at her over his shoulder.

“You won’t ...”

“Won’t what?”

“Tell anyone ...” Again he trailed off.

Getting it, she said, “Tell anyone what?”

His expression relaxed. “Thank you.”

One hand on the door, she gave him a wan parting smile. “For what?”

 

December 6

 

Mr. Waverly called Illya in to his office to discuss the Mexico Assassination Affair. Since it was a reasonably straightforward situation, the summons led the agent to believe there had been some new twist in the case. In a way he was right.

“You’ll not be going alone on the affair. I’ve assigned a new agent to accompany you.”

Illya said nothing at first, noting Waverly’s careful avoidance of the word “partner.”

“He’s an excellent prospect. Gone on a few minor missions, but he needs some fine tuning. I expect you can provide that, can’t you, Mr. Kuryakin?”

vvv

Lisa Rogers smiled at him. “Relax.”

Mike Beck looked up at Waverly’s secretary, let go of his tie. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said relax. You look like you’re going to your execution.”

He smiled. “I’m a little nervous.”

Her expression hardened. “Don’t be. They can smell it on you.” She grinned again at his reaction. “I’m only kidding.”

“I’ve only met Mr. Waverly once,” Mike said. “And I’ve only heard about Solo and Kuryakin. But boy, have I heard about them.” He tilted his head, overwhelmed that after only two months on the job he would be meeting half of UNCLE’s most legendary team.

And completely unsure how to approach that half since the recent loss of the other half. Everything about them, including their friendship, had been granted epic proportions during survival-school tales.

Mike had no illusions about stepping into anyone’s shoes, but he anticipated a fair amount of resentment — perhaps even an unfair amount, although none of the tales had indicated Kuryakin was an unfair man — and harsh judgment of any mistakes. At least if he were being teamed with Solo he’d have some idea how to proceed; Kuryakin’s inscrutability was as established in UNCLE lore as his skill.

The desk communicator beeped and the secretary answered it, then lifted her head to him.

“Go on in, Mr. Beck.” Lower, as he passed her desk, she said, “ _Relax_.”

The doors slid open.

Waverly beckoned him in with his unlit pipe. “Come in, Mr. Beck. You’ve been assigned to assist Mr. Kuryakin on this Mexico City assassination case.”

The man seated at the table got up. Mike kept his expression neutral, not revealing — he hoped — his surprise at the slight, unimpressive looking blond man whose hand he shook. Kuryakin didn’t look any older than he was, although Mike knew he had to be past 30. Cool blue eyes looked him up and down, impassive.

“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Kuryakin,” he said. “I always wanted to meet Mr. Solo, as well. Although I only knew him by reputation, may I offer my condolences on his loss?”

“Thank you,” Illya growled, releasing the boy’s hand and turning to Waverly.

Discomfitted, Beck glanced at Waverly, who waved a hand at him.

“Sit down.”

vvv

In the UNCLE lunch room Mike met Karen, one of the secretaries, with whom he’d formed a friendship they both were being very careful about turning into something more. She’d been in the secretarial pool (nicknamed The Blaboratory) at UNCLE NY more than a year. She was smart and plain and serious, but sometimes funny and pretty — and if you caught her at one of those times, you didn’t forget it. At least Mike didn’t.

“I mean, I’d seen photos, but, hell, the man’s dossier is bigger than he is!” He shook his head, grinning ruefully. “And more impressive to look at.”

Karen watched him thoughtfully. “He must resent you.”

“He was courteous,” Mike said. “But not friendly. I’m not surprised.”

“He must miss Mr. Solo very much.”

Mike looked at her, curious. She took the expression as a request for elaboration and shrugged.

“They were very close. Together all the time. Except when Mr. Solo was with a girl here.” She smiled. “Which was pretty often.”

“So, did the famous Mr. Solo ever add you to his string of pearls?” Mike asked airily.

She laughed. “No, I’m afraid I’m not Mr. Solo’s ... um ... type.”

“His loss,” Mike said, gallant. “Mr. Kuryakin doesn’t seem like the friendly sort. I mean, from what I’ve heard ... and what I saw.”

“I think he’s the sort who doesn’t make friends easily,” she said. “I saw the two of them a lot in The Blab. There was a ...” she sought for the word. “... a real warmth between them. Of course, Mr. Solo was a warm person anyway. They were very different. But when they were together ... well, you could tell their friendship was real. It must make it very hard for him now. He’s actually quite nice, you know.”

Mike’s brows shot up. “Who? Kuryakin?”

She gave him an arch look. “Of course.”

Surprised, he sat back, examined a thumbnail. “So ... what about _him_?”

He glanced up; she was scowling. “What about him?”

“Uh ... _he_ ever ask you out?” Mike said, again playing casual.

She sparkled at him, that look he’d seen once and been captivated by. “An UNCLE staffer never tells, Mr. Beck. You should know that.”

“Hey!” He sat forward. “You mean you went out with him?”

She picked up her tea. “Finish your lunch, Mr. Beck. I hear you and Mr. K are going to Mexico today.”

 

December 10

 

Four days later, Karen greeted him with a strangely knowing smile.

“So. How was Mexico?”

He considered. “Educational.”

“Would you like to buy me lunch and tell me about it?”

As they collected sandwiches and coffee in the commissary Mike learned that in his absence Karen had been promoted to assistant to Lisa Rogers, Mr. Waverly’s secretary, and that she was performing Lisa’s duties during the latter’s vacation. That explained, he thought, the knowing look on her face. She must have been privy to some additional data.

“Congratulations,” he said as they sat at a table in the corner, away from the others.

“Thanks. I’m glad to be out of The Blab, to tell the truth. So ... _como estas_?”

Mike chuckled. “Tired. Exhausted. Humbled.”

That made her smile broaden for some reason. He chose to not inquire about it at the moment.

“Humbled by your own fallibilities, or the lack of same in your partner?”

“We’re not partners,” Mike said automatically, knowing how offensive Illya would find that. “We were a temporary team.”

“Correction noted.” She unwrapped her turkey sandwich.

Mike looked at his own sandwich, sighed. Talking about this was going to ruin his appetite, but if she wanted to hear, he was willing to tell. Maybe one of his minor exploits would impress her enough to consider going out to dinner with him. But then, he couldn’t even tell her about his minor exploits. The details of the mission were classified.

He sighed again.

“That bad, eh?” a man’s voice startled him. He glanced up to see Don Deacon stopped by the table, coffee cup in hand. Don and his partner Tony Alberti had been senior agents on Mike’s first mission. He liked and respected both men.

“Hi Don,” Karen said. “Mike was just about to tell me about his first mission with Mr. Kuryakin.”

“First?” Don smiled at Mike. “This teaming likely to be permanent?”

Mike shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Don’s smile faded a little, turned thoughtful. “Mind if I join you?”

Karen shook her head as Mike said, “Nope,” and moved his tray a little. “I could probably use your insights.”

“On Illya? What makes you think I have any?” Don set his coffee cup down and crossed his arms, leaning forward. “Did it go badly? Scuttlebutt says it was a success.”

Mike laughed at himself. “No. It went fine. I just ... it was just the first time I’ve seen, you know, one of the really top agents in action.”  He looked at Don, feeling his face heat. “I don’t mean —”

 The black agent smiled, waving his apology away.

“Never mind that,” he said. “There’s Solo and Kuryakin, then there’s the rest of us. We’d be fools not to realize it. Tony and I’ve worked with them. They’re like magic together. Superhuman. You could learn a lot from Illya,” he added encouragingly.

“About how completely green and incompetent I am?” Mike said sourly. “I got that lesson.”

Don chuckled.

“I’ve never seen anybody so damned ... efficient,” he went on. “Inhumanly efficient. Smack — everything by the book. I mean, he knew all the background on all the embassy people, the staff, the history of the ruling party, the layout ... I read the dossiers, too, I’m not a slacker, you know that.”

Don nodded. “I know.”

“But he knew things that weren’t in the dossiers. He knew how to get past every kind of lock and monitor in that complex, stuff I’ve never even heard about.” To Karen he said, half pleading, “I’m not completely stupid. I was—” he stopped himself from saying he was at the top of his classes, both in survival school and out. “I mean, I think I’m pretty good, even though I’m still a novice. The second day, six guys jumped us in an alley. It was a set-up. I held my own and everything, but he just _dispatched_ them, bam, bam, bam. I could’ve stood there and applauded and it would’ve been over just as quick.” Mike shook his head, remembering, wondering, as he had at the time, if Kuryakin hadn’t been venting some of the anger he had to be feeling over his partner’s death.

Karen and Don were watching him with identically serious expressions.

“And Rialto, the assassin, he’s world famous. But ... Kuryakin was a step ahead of everybody, even Rialto and his people. It was over with in three days. I’ve never seen anybody step into such a mess and sort it out so fast. I just trailed around behind him with my damn’ jaw on the ground.” He stopped. “I apologize for my language,” he added, for Karen’s benefit. “I guess I’m just not used to feeling so useless. What did he need me along for? To hold his coat?”

Don chuckled. “He didn’t. You needed to go along to learn something. Looks like you did.”

Gently Karen said, “If they ask you to work with him again, will you?”

“They don’t give new agents a lot of choice in that,” Don said to her, then added, to Mike, “Don’t let his manner, or the fact that he’s Russian, put you off.”

“I’m not worried about his ancestry,” Mike said. “I just felt really unnecessary.”

Don shook his head. “You’ve got the best teacher you could possibly have in Illya. And in spite of how cold he seems to be at first, he’s a good guy. He’s got to be reeling about losing his partner. Napoleon was his only close friend.” He shook his head again, shaking away thoughts of that very real possibility happening to him, as it could to any agent. Everyone had felt, whether they’d admit it or not, that Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, together, were immortal. Napoleon’s loss had been a blow to UNCLE in ways that couldn’t be measured.

“He’s not going to want to be partnered with me after seeing how useless I was,” Mike said, frustrated. “I’m better than that, damn it.” He fell silent again, seeing over and over in his mind’s eye how good, how incredibly damn _good_ , Kuryakin was at what he did.

“Wait and see,” Karen said soothingly.

Don got up. “Yeah. Give yourself time. Even Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin weren’t built in a day.”

 

December 14

 

“You called for me?” Mike said, trying not to look around at the office Kuryakin had shared with Solo. Illya sat at a desk, file folders in front of him.

“Yes. We’re leaving for Geneva in a week.” The rich voice held a hint of irritation. Mike assumed it wasn’t directed at him. “UNCLE has uncovered a THRUSH plan to replace top U.N. diplomats with doubles via an as yet unknown technique.”

“I’m to accompany you?” Mike said, then could have kicked himself.

The head came up slightly, one blond brow raised. “You have an objection?” His tone indicated he couldn’t possibly care less if Mike hated him or loved him.

“No. Not an objection. I’m just a little surprised.”

Illya closed the folder briskly, got up. “Why?” Again the question was without real interest.

“After Mexico City ...” Mike trailed off, feeling his frustration rise. Illya, putting the file folder in a drawer, paused, turned, still holding the folder, and surveyed Mike with those chilly blue eyes.

When he spoke his tone was human, startlingly so. “Your performance in Mexico City was perfectly satisfactory.” Watching Mike’s expression, he added, “Did you think it hadn’t been?”

Mike raised his arms. “I didn’t do anything!”

Illya’s head tilted slightly. “I see. You’re dissatisfied with your own performance.”

Knowing he sounded like a pouting kid, Mike said, “I wasn’t much help.”

“Yes you were,” Illya said, matter of factly. He turned back to the drawers and put away the folder, not seeing Mike’s brief, delighted smile. Then he faced Mike again, closing the drawer with his back. “As acting CEA I have some latitude in these matters. If I had any doubts about you, I would ask for someone else.”

Mike nodded, relieved.

“If you have any objections to working with me,” Illya said then, the cool, indifferent tone back, “you should voice them now.”

“Oh, no!” Mike held out his hands. “I mean,  I ... I know I have a lot to learn. I’d prefer to learn it from the best. I just thought you wouldn’t ...” He stopped himself, took a breath. “I’m honored to work with you, Mr. Kuryakin.”

Unless his eyes deceived him, that drew a faint, very brief smile from the Russian, and he turned back to the filing cabinet, opening another drawer.

“May I ask why you haven’t been named CEA yet?” Mike asked, wondering if he was risking screwing up a good situation.

“I made a request of Mr. Waverly. He granted it.”

Mike absorbed that. “You don’t want the job?”

Illya closed the drawer, took the folder to his desk, not looking at Mike. “I have the job.”

“I mean, the title,” Mike said. “The perks that go with the work.”

Sitting at his desk, Illya set down one file, picked up another and held it out.

“Study this. You have a lot of background to get through in the next few days.”

Mike took the folder and the hint, weighing the former in his hands. “Am I going to be tested on this?”

That faint smile returned as Illya glanced up at him. “Yes.”

 

December 20

 

Illya sorted through the paperwork with tired eyes, less than half his mind on what he was looking at.

Geneva had gone well. Mike was a good rookie, smart and energetic, a little too eager to please, but Illya had to admit that his reputation — whatever he himself felt about its accuracy — would make any rookie nervous.

Mike’s abilities had impressed him. He’d make someone a good partner one day soon.

Illya raised his eyes, stared blankly at the far wall, above Napoleon’s desk. Someone. Not him. No new partners. It wasn’t so much that he wouldn’t consider it; he couldn’t. You couldn’t replace half of your heart and soul. All you could do was bind yourself up to stop the bleeding, and go on until you dropped.

One of the biggest irritants was, paradoxically, others’ kindness. Only two hours ago, agents Tony Alberti and Don Deacon had stopped by to invite Illya to a Christmas party. He’d declined as politely as possible.

“Come on,” Tony had said.

“No thank you,” Illya had repeated, a little cooler.

“Napoleon wouldn’t want you to do this,” Don had said softly. Illya had looked up, blazing anger for an instant, and Deacon had drawn back. Then Illya had blinked, sighed, running a hand through disheveled hair.

“Sorry. You’re right. He wouldn’t.” He’d attempted a wan smile, acknowledgement of the agents’ concern and desire to help. “But then I rarely did what Napoleon wanted me to do anyway.”

“We’re here for you,” Don had said, “but we can’t help if you don’t let us. I think it’d make you feel better to join us, just for a little while.”

“What he said,” Tony had added, prodding Illya’s shoulder gently, and Illya had smiled. Tony got a kick out of pretending to be a dumb Italiano New Yorker.

Knowing it was the easiest way to get rid of them, Illya had said, “I’ll think about it.”

Both men knew what he meant. They’d exchanged a look and Don had said, “Okay. Fair enough.”

Illya had watched the partners leave his office, shoulder to shoulder, as he and Napoleon had so often left it. He’d locked the door behind them, not wanting anyone else to come by and see him in the state that memory left him in. Cleaning up the mess afterward was an exercise in discipline that, strangely, helped to clear his mind.

Now, Illya focused on the files, prioritizing them. He’d work on them tomorrow after as much of a good night’s sleep as he’d gotten in the last few months.

One short memo, from the Paris office, caught his attention. Lerou, the chief pathologist for the Paris office, had disappeared. The report indicated no signs of foul play, no hints of trouble in his background or in recent events in his life. No family, no close friends — neither unusual for an UNCLE employee — and no clues.

It took Illya’s jetlagged mind a few seconds to recall why that should interest him. It was this pathologist whose report had closed the coffin on Napoleon and the other two agents.

The back of Illya’s mind did the math as he phoned Paris, but working out that it was 5 a.m. there didn’t stand a chance of stopping him: he only changed the number from the Paris office to Vernet’s home.

Vernet answered on the first ring, obviously still half asleep.

“Vernet.”

“Kuryakin.” He waited, and Vernet did not disappoint him. After a measured moment, the French agent said:

“Yes. Yes. Lerou is gone. He simply did not come in for work one morning. There is no evidence of struggle. And, yes, it was he who performed the autopsies on your partner and our men.”

“Personally?” Illya barked. “Alone?”

“ _Oui_.”

“Find him,” Illya said.

Equally flatly Vernet said, “We shall.”

December 23

 

“Mr. Kuryakin!” the lab assistant jumped. “You’re here late.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” Illya looked around. The lab supply room — the entire laboratory level, as far as he’d seen on his way down — was empty but for the clerk. No wonder she was jumpy.

“What can I help you with?” she asked, fluttering lashes that looked as if she’d glued a fur coat to each eyelid.

“I’m out of exploding cufflinks,” he said. She got up and went into the supply room, scanning the shelves. He leaned on the wall and watched her search, stifling a yawn.

She came back out with a small box. “Here you go. You look tired,” she said sympathetically. “You work too hard.”

He shoved the box in his pocket. “Saving the world is a 24 hour a day job. Thank you for the cufflinks.”

He heard her sigh as he shut the door behind him.

The silence felt strangely peaceful as he headed for the elevators. The labs were a kind of second home for him, or they had been, before any sense of home had been destroyed.

An open door caught his eye; the labs were usually locked up when people went home, for obvious safety reasons. He went automatically to close it.

The frightened hiss of Dr. Abernathy’s voice stopped Illya short, just outside the door.

“You shouldn’t call me here. You might—”

Illya flattened himself against the wall.

“Yes.” Dr. Abernathy’s voice became hushed, excited. “I know. You know I do.”

Another pause. “No. I’ve told you that. There is no way to control what memories return once you’ve—”

Illya tensed, every nerve alert.

“Where —” Pause. “Yes. I see. No.” A longer pause, and Abernathy spoke with less tension and more emotion. “I want to see you. Can you —” Pause. “Yes, I know it. But —” a short pause. “I’ll be there.”

Illya slid along the wall to a utility closet and ducked inside, leaving the door ajar. He needed a moment to think. His heart was racing. The gut instinct all good agents had told him here was the missing link that might lead him at last to Napoleon — or, at least, to Napoleon’s killers, vengeance, and some kind of peace.

The one phone call had revealed two of Dr. Abernathy’s lies: he’d claimed to have no loved ones, and he’d claimed to have shared his hypnotic memory techniques with no one.

Illya put his eye to the crack between door and jamb and watched Abernathy, greatcoat, hat and scarf donned to protect him from the winter cold, stride hurriedly from his lab. Illya followed.

Abernathy departed through Del Floria’s. Illya waited in the dressing booth until he heard the bell ring, then slipped out — and nearly crashed into Mike Beck.

“Whoa — sorry —” Mike caught him. Illya slid out of his grip and darted for the door, but it was too late. Abernathy was gone, lost in the evening crowds and the gathering dark. Illya spat a particularly filthy Russian curse, hand clenched on the doorknob, and forced himself to stop and think. He stood there in the doorway, not feeling the cold, letting a flurry of snowflakes into the tailor shop.

Mike and Mr. Del Floria exchanged a puzzled look.

“What’s ..?” Mike began, not knowing who to ask it of.

Illya turned around, swept past Mike, who followed him to Illya’s office.

The Russian picked up the phone, dialed an extension.

“Kuryakin. I want the address of Dr. Timothy Abernathy in research.”

Silence. Mike wondered; why would he want Abernathy’s address? It was irregular for even an agent to request privileged information like this.

“New York?” Illya said. “Thank you.” He hung up the phone, noticed Mike.

“What are you doing here?”

“What’s going on?” Mike asked. “What’s up with Dr. Abernathy?”

“Nothing,” Illya said, grabbing his coat from the rack.

Then Mike remembered that Abernathy was the one who’d come up with the hypnosis technique used on Solo in his last mission.

“Does it have something to do with Mr. Solo?” he asked bluntly.

Illya stopped, looking up at him, and Mike had to stiffen his spine to gaze into the depths of experience and emotion there.

“Let me help,” he said. Illya’s look narrowed, became measuring.

“I’ll tell you this much,” he said. “I’m going to Dr. Abernathy’s apartment to wait for him. When he gets there, I’m going to make him talk. I have no authorization for this except for my own instincts.”

Mike absorbed this. “And you think Mr. Solo might be alive? Or that, if he isn’t, Dr. Abernathy may be complicit in his murder?”

Illya nodded, shrugging into his light coat; the Russian thought nothing of New York winters.

“What’s to stop me going to Mr. Waverly the minute you leave?” Mike said. Illya looked at him, unconcerned, impatient to leave.

“The fact that I told you,” he said. Mike nodded. The trust that revelation represented could not be betrayed.

“Right. So ... what can I do?”

Another brief hesitation. “It won’t hurt to have a backup.”

Mike moved to the door. “Let’s go.”

The door opened. Illya laid a hand on Mike’s arm.

“You might want to reconsider. Nothing will happen to me if I’m wrong. Nothing fatal, anyway. You could damage your career with UNCLE.”

Mike shrugged. “I’ve seen your instincts in action. If you think there’s something to this, I’d bet my life there is.”

Illya favored him with his faint smile. “Then let’s go.”

vvv

Abernathy unlocked the door and pushed it open with a tired sigh, doffing his hat and tossing it, along with his scarf and coat, onto the chair near the door. He pushed the door shut and crossed the room to his easy chair, next to the cold hearth, sinking into the cushions and reaching to turn on the reading lamp.

“Nice perfume.”

Abernathy jumped, nearly knocking the lamp over. He groped for it with both hands, steadied it and turned it on, pushing himself back in his chair as he scanned the room.

Illya Kuryakin stood by the door, holding Abernathy’s scarf in one hand.

“Good God!” Abernathy breathed, clutching one hand over his hammering heart. “What on Earth are you doing in my apartment at this hour?”

Illya put down the scarf. “I have a few questions for you, doctor.”

December 24

 

“You had a date tonight,” Illya said.

Abernathy opened his mouth, closed it. “Perhaps I did,” he finally choked out.

“A date with a colleague.” Illya took a step closer.

“No...”

“A former colleague,” Illya said, still slowly advancing.

“No.” Abernathy blanched. “Sh-she’s —”

“You spoke to her on the phone. About your techniques.”

If Abernathy had been pale before, he turned ghastly white at those words. “You ... you monitored m-my phone?”

“That’s what spies do,” Illya said, sitting on the arm of the couch that faced Abernathy’s chair. “You said you had no loved ones. You also said no one knew anything about the technique you used on my partner.”

“That’s the truth!”

Illya struck like a snake, backhanding Abernathy and resuming his seat before the doctor’s cry faded into silence.

“It wasn’t the truth,” Illya said calmly. “But you are going to tell me the truth now.”

Holding his face, Abernathy turned wide eyes on the agent. “Wh-what are you going to do?”

“Whatever you make me do,” Illya said.

Abernathy tried to stiffen his spine. “You can’t come in here and — “

“Yes I can.”

“I’ll call the police,” Abernathy said, coloring when Illya smiled. “Or Mr. Waverly.”

“Do you think he’ll listen to you?”

“He will.” Abernathy straightened up, bracing himself on the arms of the chair, gaining conviction as he spoke. “Everyone knows you’re distraught. After losing your partner. You’re un-unbalanced. You need help.”

Illya got up, crossed to Abernathy. The doctor shrank back in his chair as Illya leaned over him, hands on the arms of the chair, trapping Abernathy.

The Russian said, low, “You’re right. I am unbalanced. And you are going to help me. Right now. Who did you meet tonight?”

Abernathy made the mistake of smirking. Illya backhanded it off his face.

“Who?”

Abernathy cringed. “A-a woman. A friend. I knew her from years ago, in London.”

“Her name,” Illya said coldly.

“Rebecca Barlow. Doctor Rebecca Barlow. She’s a psychiatrist.”

“You talked about your hypnotic technique with her. How much does she know?”

“We-we’ve talked about it a few times. She was a student in one of my seminars. She was very interested in memory, techniques for improving it, healing it. W-we—”

“Does she know enough to break through your technique?”

“I ... don’t think ...”

“You don’t know,” Illya concluded, straightening up. “What does she do?”

“She runs a private clinic in Maine.”

“And she was asking you questions about a patient of hers? Questions having to do with memory?”

“Well, yes. One of her patients had been in an accident...” Abernathy trailed off, blanching again as the implications made themselves clear to him.

“Where in Maine?” Illya snapped.

“I—I don’t know. I never asked. She never told me.”

Illya sneered. “Your lover never told you where she worked?”

The doctor flushed. “I-we—”

“Never mind. You’re going to call your lady friend. You’re going to tell her you need to see her again. As soon as possible.”

“It’s the middle of the night!”

Illya glanced at his watch. “Actually it’s a quarter after two. Call her. Tell her you need to see her. That it’s important. Don’t tell her anything else. Meet her whenever and wherever she feels comfortable, but meet her.”

“You think he’s still alive,” Abernathy breathed. “You think ... it’s all some plot, that Becca is involved, that I’m involved ... you’re out of your mind.”

Illya moved away from the doctor, to the front window, pulled the curtain aside a little. The street below, dark, quiet, revealed no sign of anyone watching.

Abernathy jumped out of his chair and sidled around it, aiming to make a dash through the kitchen and down the back stairs. He stopped.

“Hi there.” Mike, leaning on the wall by the kitchen door, saluted.

Trapped, Abernathy turned. Illya was holding the phone out to him.

vvv

She hung up the phone. “That’s strange.”

Edgar waited while she lit a cigarette. “What’s strange?”

“That was Timothy. He wants to see me right away.”

Edgar smirked. “I don’t blame him.”

She shot him an icicle glance. “He just saw me. He said he needs to talk to me. He wouldn’t tell me what it was about over the phone. He sounded anxious.” She gazed out the window, tapping her finger on her chin.

“Do you think he’s been found out?”

Her mouth twitched. “Found out doing what? Having dates? Mooning over a woman like a little boy? That’s all he’s done. Unlike THRUSH, UNCLE permits its people to have social lives.”

“I don’t like it,” Edgar said. “What are you going to do?”

“Meet with him, of course. In —” she consulted her watch — “Six hours. I still need his help with Solo.”

“Having a little trouble?” Edgar said sweetly.

“I knew it wouldn’t be easy when I started,” she said, flicking ash in his direction. “I’m not in this damned office at this ungodly hour for my health, or for the pleasure of your company.”

Edgar ignored that. “We could simply eliminate Abernathy, if he’s become a danger.”

She rounded on him. “I told you, I need him. I need his guidance, for a little while longer. Just until I break through.”

Edgar shrugged. “We might bring him here, instead.”

She stared at the carpet in front of his feet. She never looked at him if she could help it. Her contempt was a constant irritant; he looked forward to the day his superiors would permit him to teach her to reconsider that attitude. But that wouldn’t happen until she’d broken through to the data Solo had in his head.

“Yes,” she said finally. “That might accelerate things here. If you can do it without UNCLE getting wise to it—”

“I think we’re capable of engineering a simple kidnapping. Where and when are you meeting him?”

vvv

Outside, in the alley where they could watch both front and back entrances to Abernathy’s building, they sat in Illya’s car.

“You were very quiet,” Illya said.

“You seemed to have things in hand.”

The Russian eyed him cannily. “You’re still very quiet.”

Mike smiled ruefully, offered a half-nod of acknowledgement. “I was ... surprised. All of this is coming at me from left field. I’m having to do a lot of fast rethinking.”

“About?”

The grin became a little embarrassed. “Well, I kind of had an image of you as pretty by the book. Well, no. As totally by the book.” He smirked at himself, his own assumptions and the lack of imagination they showed. Solo had had a reputation as a hell of a maverick when he had to be; their partnership could never have lasted, let alone flourished, if Illya had been totally strait-laced.

“Then all this,” he went on. “I’m not sure there’s a regulation you haven’t at least bent, just in the last few hours. I admit I’ve been concerned.”

“You thought I might be out of my mind too?”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I thought about the consequences if you’re wrong, though, you can bet on that.” Mike chuckled weakly. It was as Illya had said; not too much would happen to an agent with Illya’s skills and reputation. He could probably kill Abernathy and get off with a stern warning. But if Illya were wrong, the rules Mike had broken tonight, just as an accomplice, could get him thrown out of UNCLE.

“You went along with it,” Illya said, not an accusation.

“When I say I’ll be someone’s backup, I back him up,” Mike averred. “You didn’t do anything that outrageous. If you’d started to really beat on him, I might’ve intervened.”

“Did you think I would?”

“Oh yeah. But I haven’t seen anything yet that tells me you’re wrong, and I’ve seen a little evidence that you tend to know what you’re doing, so I’m willing to continue backing you up.”

Again he was rewarded with a tiny smile. “Thanks.”

“So now what?” Mike said.

Illya adjusted a knob on the dash; Mike knew he’d attached a bug to Abernathy’s phone; the receiver in the car would let them know if the doctor made any additional calls. “We wait.”

“For?”

“For Dr. Abernathy to make a break for it.”

“You think he will? I kind of bought his story.”

Illya nodded, thoughtful. “He sounded convincing. He may well be simply a dupe for THRUSH. Or ...”

“Or?” Mike prompted.

“I may be on completely the wrong track.”

“You don’t really think so, though, do you?”

Illya shook his head. “Too many coincidences. And even if he’s innocent of all but ... misplaced affections, he may run out of fear. Of us, or of what we told him.”

“What _you_ told him, quimosabe,” Mike countered.

“Chemo what?”

Mike glanced at him. “You don’t watch much TV, do you?”

“I don’t watch any TV,” Illya said flatly. “I don’t have time. I’m too busy doing things to sit down and watch _other_ people pretending to do things.”

“Ouch. You miss a lot of cultural references that way.”

Illya smiled again. “I know. I rely on Napoleon to ...” He stopped, the smile faltering.

“You really think he’s still alive?” Mike asked gently. “Held somewhere?”

His tone flat once more, Illya said, “I think it’s possible.”

At that moment his communicator beeped. Mike scowled as Illya pulled it out. Who would be calling at 3 in the morning?

“Kuryakin here.”

“Overseas relay, Mr. Kuryakin, from the Paris office.”

“Go ahead.”

A crackle, then a French accent. “Vernet here.”

“Kuryakin.” Illya’s voice held suppressed excitement. “What have you found?”

“Lerou. Dead. In a canal in Belgium.”

“Murder?”

“He’d been shot four times. My guess is it wasn’t suicide.”

Illya lowered the communicator for a moment, thinking, then raised it again.

“Can you check to see if he knew a Dr. Rebecca Barlow, possibly in London?”

“I can.”

“ _Merci_. Let me know as soon as you find out.”

“Vernet out.”

“What was that?” Mike asked.

“The forensic pathologist whose report confirmed the deaths of Napoleon and the two French agents,” Illya explained. “He disappeared. Now he’s dead.”

“Okay,” Mike said. “This is starting to smell even to a novice like me. So the pathologist falsified the report so we’d believe Mr. Solo is dead, so that this woman, whoever she is, who’s probing Dr. Abernathy’s mind for his secrets, can get past the hypnotic block you mentioned and get at ... at what?”

“Ah. I forget you weren’t privy to the whole affair. Let’s just say Napoleon was programmed with a very nice Christmas list for THRUSH, and a whole stocking full of coal for us if they find it out.”

Mike turned, staring out the window, considering. “Speaking of Christmas, it’s snowing again.” He hunched down in his seat, arms crossed, mulling the threads Illya had put together. It was looking a lot less like desperate hope, and a lot more like a THRUSH con, with every passing minute.

vvv

“Our bird is flying,” Illya said quietly, shaking Mike out of a chilled half-sleep. Mike sat up, saw a taxi in front of the apartment building, and a tall thin man in an overcoat, with a gladstone bag, tiptoeing down the steps. It was morning; snow still fell from the grey sky.

“So do we follow him?” Mike asked. Illya was pulling his leather jacket on.

“No. _You_ follow him.” He got out of the car into the swirling snowfall. Puzzled, Mike slid behind the wheel.

“What are you going to do?”

“Go home and catch a nap,” Illya said, straight faced. “Then I’m going to make his rendezvous with Dr. Barlow. You follow this doctor, I’ll follow that one. Keep in touch.” He shut the car door and backed away. Mike started the car and waited while Abernathy got in the cab. When the taxi pulled away, he followed, glancing back to see Illya crossing the street, head bent under the falling snow.

 

December 3

 

A reddish blur gradually focused itself into a redheaded woman in a white coat, seating in a chair. He was in a bed, a hospital bed with the head tilted up a little.

“Can you understand me?” the woman asked.

He nodded.

“How do you feel?”

He considered the question. “Tired.” The words came slowly. “Like I’ve been sick. Have I?”

Her mouth twitched. “Yes. Do you feel sick now?”

“No. Weak. Where am I?”

“Bronson Clinic. Maine. I’m Dr. Monmouth.” She hesitated, asked kindly, “Can you tell me your name?”

He opened his mouth, closed it as a knot of conflict tightened his throat.

“Are you afraid to tell me?” she asked. “Or ...”

He shook his head. “How did I end up here?”

“There was an ... an explosion.”  She regarded him steadily, her brown eyes unreadable. “Do you remember it?”

He looked away, stared at the wallpaper. The room’s decorations suggested a pretty upscale hospital. He shook his head.

“Can you tell me the last thing you do remember?”

“Waking up here,” he said, more an evasion than the exact truth.

“Do you remember your name?”

He looked at her. She sighed.

“I’m not interrogating you, Mr. Solo. Your name, if you really have forgotten it, is Napoleon Solo. I’m not your enemy. You were injured. We’re trying to determine the extent of ... of damage. Physically you are healed. If you will work with me, we can determine what you remember and what you do not remember. I can help you fill in any gaps.”

“What makes you think there are gaps?” he asked.

She smiled thinly. “Obviously you haven’t forgotten your defensiveness. But among your injuries was a blow to the head.” She consulted a clipboard, noted something. “Please let me help you. Work with me, don’t fight me. _Had_ you forgotten your name?”

“Are you going to believe me if I say no?”

She nodded matter of factly. “Of course. I have no intention of playing games with you, Mr. Solo. I think you’ll soon realize I’m trying to help. I can’t do that if you aren’t honest with me.”

“I remember my name,” he said.

She continued writing, glancing up at him. “You still don’t trust me.”

He shook his head, not saying that the real confusion here was not knowing _why_ he didn’t trust her. Instead he watched the pen move across the clipboard on her knee.

“I need to talk to —” His voice, which had begun authoritatively, snapped off into silence. He scowled.

“To talk to whom?” She leaned forward, pen poised. “Do you know?”

Still scowling, he said, “My superior.” It was as much of an admission as he could make, and even that made him uneasy.

“Can you tell me his name?”

He shook his head. She sighed again. “Mr. Solo, please answer my questions. I need to know what you remember. I can tell you your life story, if you wish — I do have it here — but I need to establish the limits of your amnesia in order to alleviate it.”

She waited. After a few minutes she rose from her seat.

“I don’t mean to badger you, Mr. Solo.I know you’ve just awakened, and you’re probably weak and disoriented. If you have any questions, please ask. Otherwise, I’ll let you alone to rest. It’s nearly lunch time anyway.”

He licked dry lips. “What ... how long have I been here?”

She crossed her arms over the clipboard, hugged against her chest. “Mr. Solo, you have been in a coma for two months.”

“Two ...”

“Since the explosion.”

She watched him for a moment. “The bell beside your bed is for the nurse. Please buzz if you need anything. I’ll come back this afternoon.”

She left; he heard the door lock behind her.

 

Two months! He sat upright, feeling the limpness of his muscles, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was wearing blue pyjamas, expensive ones. Little expense, apparently, had been spared on him. He laid his hands on his thighs; they felt thinner than he ... not than he remembered, but than he thought they should. If that wasn’t the same thing.

Staring at his hands, he realized something was missing. A ring. Not a wedding ring. A pinky ring. A gift. From ...

He got up, slowly. No pain anywhere, but he was a little dizzy and not very steady. He moved carefully to the window, regarding the wintry-sunlit view of snow-frosted lawn and evergreen trees beyond, carpeting a rolling countryside that could have been Maine, as far as he knew. Dr. Monmouth’s accent had been American, of that he was certain.

The window wouldn’t open.

He circumnavigated the room. A desk and chair, the former containing pens and stationery with the Bronson Clinic letterhead, a sort of combined caduceus-evergreen logo, with the words Bronson, Maine, underneath. No telephone, no letter openers.

Underclothes and more pyjamas in a small dresser, some toiletries, a robe in the tiny closet, a small, utilitarian bathroom with thick towels, and a full length mirror. He stopped there, seeing himself.

Yes, thinner than he should be, his face more angled, body slimmed of familiar muscle. He ran a hand through his hair, slightly longer than he was used to, and not cut with the skill he expected from his barbers.

So. That much he could remember.

“Napoleon Solo,” he said softly. What he’d said to Monmouth had been the truth. He remembered his name. He remembered waking up here. The only other thing he was sure of was that he had a deeply ingrained resistance to telling her, or any stranger, that he could remember little else.

 _Don’t panic._ He made himself breathe slowly and deeply, leaning on the bathroom sink for a moment. _Don’t panic. Amnesia isn’t necessarily permanent. You aren’t in any immediate danger. Remain calm. Think._

He returned to the bed, pulling up the blankets and lying back on top of them, composing himself. _Think. What do you remember?_

He closed his eyes and images tumbled behind them. New York City. Steel-walled corridors. An old man — his superior — a nameless, vivid image. An airport tarmac, a rainlaced wind blowing through him as he walked to a black car. Another man, blond — this image, too, potent, compelling, again nameless but somehow comforting. His partner.

“Illya.”

He scarcely realized he’d said the name. He tried it again before it got away from him. “Illya.”

Two months. Why wasn’t Illya here? His thinking might be fuzzy, but his emotions were clear. He should be here. He _would_ be here. Unless...

Napoleon leaned over and rang the bell. When the nurse came he said, “I want to see Dr. Monmouth. Now.”

vvv

“What can I do for you, Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon stood by the window, arms crossed, glaring at her.

“You can tell me exactly what I’m doing here,” he said. During the 10-minute wait for her arrival he’d decided against mentioning Illya or any other detail. He needed something, some sign that he could trust her, and he had no idea what that sign might be. If he could lead her to believe he remembered more than he did, it might help. “And I want to speak to my superior in New York.”

She evidenced no surprise. “You may do that if you wish, of course. We’re not trying to keep anything from you, Mr. Solo. I’ll tell you whatever you wish to know.”

“Start talking,” he said.

She shrugged. “Shall we sit down?” She pulled out the desk chair and sat without waiting for an answer, setting her clipboard in her lap and looking up at him. He didn’t move.

“Very well. Now ... exactly what you are doing here: You are here because you were very nearly killed two months ago in an explosion in Paris. A bomb was planted under the hood of a car carrying you and two other agents for the UNCLE.” She glanced up at him. “Do you remember any of this?”

“Go on,” he said.

“You had been sent on an assignment, the details of which I do not know, of course. The other two agents were killed. You were not, obviously. You were brought here, and have been under our care for the last two months.”

“UNCLE,” he said, involuntarily. That name, too, stroked deep emotions, though it awakened no actual memories. United Network Command...

“The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement,” Dr. Monmouth said. “You were top enforcement agent for UNCLE.”

He shook his head; vague images, nothing he could latch on to. He found that he believed her, but not knowing why, not having facts of his own, left him anxious.

“I assure you, you were,” she said. “Perhaps, once you’ve recovered, you will be again.”

 _The other two agents were killed_.

Jolted, he blurted out, “My partner — the car bomb ... was he ..?”

“Your partner was not with you in Paris, Mr. Solo,” she said, and Napoleon took in a slow, calming breath, closing his eyes, briefly. _Illya is alive_. That was important. All-important.

“Mr. Solo.”

He opened his eyes. She held his gaze calmly.

“Please sit down.”

Fear speared him, ice cold through his gut. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry to have to tell you this. Mr. Kuryakin was killed on a mission in Egypt a month ago.”

He stared at her as his vision swirled into blackness.

 

When he came to, he was in bed, and it was night. Dr. Monmouth sat reading a book in a small pool of light cast by the desk lamp.

Napoleon blinked. He felt sick to his stomach. Then he remembered. Illya.

He groaned, flinging one arm over his face and curling on his side.

“Mr. Solo?” the doctor’s voice came from the bedside. She laid a hand on his arm and he shrugged it off.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Solo. I understand that Mr. Kuryakin was your friend.”

He choked out a hollow laugh, feeling the hot tears roll down his face. Friend. What an empty, obscene word. “Go away,” he said, words muffled by the pillow.

 

December 4

 

In the morning he showered mechanically, pulled on the robe and rang the nurse.

“Bring me clothes,” he ordered. She did a double take, then left the room. A short time later she came back with slacks, a sweater and loafers. He threw off the robe and she gasped, darting from the room.

He was sliding his feet into the loafers when Dr. Monmouth knocked and entered.

She looked him up and down; he couldn’t read her expression.

“How do you feel this morning?” she asked.

“I want to talk to New York,” he said. He still had no idea why. He saw that old man’s face in his mind’s eye, and he trusted it. That was all he knew, all he believed. All he’d let himself believe until he could see things for himself.

“You wish to speak to Mr. Waverly?” she asked gently. _Waverly_. The name blossomed in his mind, an anchor, a fact he recognized.

“Yes.”

“Come with me,” she said, turning, striding to the door. Caught off guard, he hesitated. She glanced over her shoulder, one hand on the door handle.

“There is no phone here,” she said. “Come to my office and you can call your superior.”

This time he followed her.

Her office had a large picture window that overlooked more smooth snowy lawns and a gated road. He thought he saw a man standing guard at the gate, but when he blinked, the man was gone. His vision was still a little fuzzy, so he filed the idea away and let it go.

Dr. Monmouth indicated her desk, and the phone thereon.

He went to the phone, pushing the bluff as far as he could. With his finger in the dial, he stopped. Looked at her.

“I don’t remember the number,” he admitted, fuming inwardly.

Expressionless, she dialed, not attempting to hide her actions. He believed he recognized the area code, and that it meant New York, but he wasn’t sure. The rest of the numbers tickled nothing in his mind.

He listened to three rings, then a click. A woman’s voice said, with mechanical courtesy, “United Network Command For Law and Enforcement. Can I help you?”

He started to speak, cleared his throat. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Waverly.”

“Who is calling, please?”

He glanced at Dr. Monmouth, who was politely gazing out the window instead of watching him. He had no doubt, however, that she was listening.

“Napoleon Solo,” he said.

“Oh!” The woman’s voice warmed. “Yes, Mr. Solo, I’ll put you through right away.”

His gut churned.

“Mr. Solo.”

When the familiar voice growled his name without preamble, Napoleon felt his eyes fill. He turned away, as if casually, his back to Dr. Monmouth, and said:

“Yes, Mr. Waverly.”

“What on earth are you doing calling me, Mr. Solo?” Waverly grumbled; the sound grated deep along old tracks in his mind. If Waverly had been there, Napoleon might have hugged him. “You should be concentrating on getting yourself well.”

“Just wanted to be sure about the situation, sir,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

“The situation is that I’d like my chief enforcement agent back on his feet as soon as possible,” Mr. Waverly continued. “How are you, by the way?”

“I’ve been better, sir,” Napoleon admitted.

“Yes.” Mr. Waverly cleared his throat. “You get yourself well, Mr. Solo. That’s the most important thing.”

“Sir...” He hardly knew what to say, how to ask what he needed to ask. “Illya...”

“Yes...” The sound was drawn out, speculative. “Yes, most unfortunate. Most unfortunate. I know it must be a shock to you.”

Napoleon found himself shaking his head, in denial of he knew not what. “Yes sir,” he said automatically. “I suppose ... there’s no doubt ...”

“None, I’m afraid. Hazards of the profession, as you know. I was sorry to lose Mr. Kuryakin, as I’m sure you are. Still ... kindly cooperate with Dr. Monmouth so that she can get you back to us in one piece as soon as possible, Mr. Solo, will you?”

Dazed, Napoleon was already lowering the phone to the cradle. “Yes sir,” he said, setting the receiver down.

“Are you all right, Mr. Solo?” Dr. Monmouth asked.

He looked at her. “My superior asked me to cooperate with you.”

She didn’t smile. “He wants you back, whole and healthy, as soon as possible. I understand he’s a bit of a slave driver.” Then she did smile, just a bit. “But it’s in a good cause.”

Still shaking his head vaguely, Napoleon headed for the door.

“Mr. Solo,” she said. He stopped, turned.

“I know you’re a bit disoriented. That will pass. Let me help you to recover your memories and you can return to the life you left behind.”

He shook his head again, once, certain of this at least. “The life I left behind had Illya in it.” He went to the door.

 

December 5-23

 

Days passed in a blur. Every day Dr. Monmouth would question him about his past, to little avail. She wanted to hypnotize him, thought it would get at his hidden memories, but he couldn’t bring himself to allow it. Once, in despair, after hours of hammering against the closed doors of his past, he acquiesced. But his subconscious wouldn’t allow him to go under. She gave up after a while, said they’d try again later.

He felt fuzzy-minded, but didn’t think he was being drugged — or if he was, it was very subtle. Once or twice he deliberately avoided food and drink for a day, to see if it affected his thinking, but he detected no change. He had to assume the fuzziness was simply due to having so little access to all that was in his head. At least he hoped it was still in his head.

Once Dr. Monmouth was gone he would go over, until it hurt, the little he did remember: Names, images, emotions. Childhood, in a green place. The military. New York City. UNCLE (though he couldn’t exactly picture what he had done there, or indeed what sort of organization UNCLE was. He remembered guns, action, explosives. Some form of law enforcement.). Faces would flash in his memory, women and men, dangling from loose threads of pleasure or anxiety. Places, all over the world, he thought, although he couldn’t always name them. The old man — Waverly, the name he couldn’t have put to that long, lined face if a gun had been held to his temple. Not one single memory came for his asking; everything was disjointed, tumbled like leaves in a windstorm.

And Illya. Always there, always at his side. Always. _That_ image brought with it the warmth of comfort, of safety.

Then he’d remember — like being stabbed in the stomach — that Illya was dead.

Sometimes, at night, he needed something familiar, craved it so much that he wept, curled into a ball as if to hold on to what little he had of himself. Those were the bad nights; in the morning he’d arise red-eyed and bloody-minded, full of angry futility. Most of that was directed at his own mind, the memory that had let him down. But he didn’t hesitate, on occasion, to direct that anger outward.

After one such nighttime vigil he’d stalked to Dr. Monmouth’s office and asked — demanded — to see Illya’s grave. He doubted they’d let him out of this place, even escorted. They let him walk the grounds, alone, but he’d taken careful note of the fence and the guards — ostensibly unarmed, but a gun was easily hidden. He’d also noticed there were, apparently, no other inmates. All these things raised his hackles.

He’d waited, ready for an argument. Dr. Monmouth had said, reasonably:

“He was cremated, Mr. Solo. His ashes were returned to the Ukraine and scattered there, per his wishes. I’m very sorry.”

 

December 24

 

“What do you like to do when you’re not working?”

Napoleon stared at her for a moment. It sounded as if she was asking him out on a date. Dr. Monmouth smiled.

“Well, we’ve tried your childhood, your work with UNCLE, and your family, with little success. I thought I’d try to come at your memories from a different angle.”

He crossed his arms, gazing out the picture window. He refused to lie on her couch; even sitting in the leather wing chair made him feel too boxed in. He generally wandered the room, as now, not unaware of the resemblance to an animal pacing the confines of its cage. He’d counted 10 days of this, and he was sick of it.

“Sailing,” he said, out of nowhere. The image of a small, trim cabin sailboat flashed in his mind, then the image of himself on that boat, wind in his face and calm in his mind.

“Sailing where?” she asked, and the images shattered.

“I don’t know.”

“Ocean? Lakes?”

“Ocean.”

“Alone?”

He nodded. Women, so wonderful elsewhere, were an irritant on his little boat. He’d invited Illya a few times, but his partner generally said he’d had enough of scutwork in the Russian Navy. They had sailed to Virginia once, between missions. Despite his protests Illya had proven himself an able sailor. They’d picked up a couple of local lovelies at the yacht club  ...

“What is it, Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon shook his head, angry at the interruption. “Nothing.” He tried to recapture the thread of memory, but the images ended there, at some nameless New England yacht club. It was something, though. The memories were still there, somewhere.

Dr. Monmouth shifted in her chair. “Well, let’s try something else. Names. Friends, family, places, business acquaintances? Do any names come to your mind?”

“New York City,” he said automatically. “Paris. London. Moscow. Cairo. Rio. Los Angeles. Tokyo. Beijing. Hong Kong. Budapesth. Rome. Venice. Vienna. Madrid. Tangiers. Casablanca.” Each name was a flash of certain memory; he knew he’d visited each city. That stopped him. “I guess I traveled a lot.” He glanced over his shoulder. Dr. Monmouth smiled.

“That was normal for your job,” she said.

“Secretly,” he said, another flash.

“That, also, was normal for your job,” she said serenely. “What about names? Any people come to mind? For instance, in Madrid?”

He pictured the city. “Garcia,” he said as the image of a  handsome man in a suit flickered in his mind, attached to no emotion. “Alarcon. Montez.”

“Friends?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe ... co-workers? I’m not sure.”

“London?”

“Piccadilly Circus,” he said of the picture in his head. “The ... the offices are there.”

“UNCLE’s offices?”

“I think so.”

“Do you remember any of the people in the London office?”

“Alice.” He pictured a blond woman, beaming a come-hither smile at him. He smiled in response.

“Is Alice a friend?” Dr. Monmouth asked. Napoleon looked at her.

“I don’t know.”

“What about Paris?” she asked idly, her pen tapping against her chin.

“Paris.” He remembered an airport tarmac and a windy, rainy day.

“Just say whatever names pop into your head, Mr. Solo,” Dr. Monmouth suggested.

“Thomason,” he said. “Kenneally.”  He glanced at her, saw she was writing. That stopped him, though he didn’t know why. Why would she need to write those names down?

She glanced up and he tweaked his face into a scowl. “I can’t remember any more.”

She put down the pen. “You will. I think we’re making some headway, Mr. Solo.”

“Good.”

vvv

Edgar entered her office without knocking. Nor did he bother with his usual brief and clumsy pleasantries. He stopped at the window and waited for her to acknowledge him. The patient amusement in his face prevented her from delaying that moment; there was no point in bothering if it wouldn’t irritate him.

“I think we’re making progress,” she said, not looking up from her notes.

“Have you got the names?”

“I said progress. I didn’t say I was finished. This is a slightly more subtle art than beating information out of someone with a rubber hose,” she concluded, glancing around at him to watch the barb hit home.

“Speaking of rubber hoses,” he said. “I’ve spoken with Central. They ... well, they’re tired of waiting. They want results.”

“They’re welcome to try themselves if they think they can do a better job than I can,” she said evenly. “I thought I made it clear when Central suggested this that there are no guarantees.”

Edgar turned from the window, looked at her for a moment. “That may be so, but Central doesn’t take losses gracefully. Nor do they deal kindly with those who have caused them to lose. You would do well to remember that, doctor.”

She shrugged. “I can increase the intensity of the sessions. It might help. It might not.”

“I’d suggest you do it, doctor.” Without another glance at her he left the office. Dr. Monmouth unclenched her hands from her pen and notebook and saw that they were shaking.

vvv

Later that day Napoleon went for a walk around the grounds, disregarding the nurse’s warning that he’d catch cold in only a sweater and loafers. He strolled as if aimlessly, but eventually he’d walked the entire perimeter. Ten feet of cyclone fencing surrounded the place, with only the one gate, at the front. The gate was guarded night and day. Beyond the gate the road led down into a New England-esque town, just visible through the trees.

Napoleon scuffed along in the snow on the crunchy grass, puzzling over his own suspicions about Dr. Monmouth. Suspicions that, as far as he could see, had no foundation. He hadn’t caught her in a lie, he’d been allowed to speak to Mr. Waverly ... he had no reasons for his doubts; he just had the doubts. What he wanted, really, was to get out of this place, back to New York, even though he couldn’t remember where he lived or much about what he did there. Surely familiar environs would help jog his memory. He wanted to be in the presence of something, or someone, he knew.

Glancing at the gate, Napoleon saw the guard pass in front of it, then caught  a flash of movement on the road leading to town. Someone walking along the road, in black. Napoleon caught the gleam of blond hair and his feet propelled him toward the gate. Intense relief — joy — flooded him, along with a sense of inevitability. Deep down he’d known all along that Illya couldn’t be dead. That he would come.

His breath clouded before him as he ran to the fence. The gate was open; he could just dart past the guard, if Illya could provide a distraction.

The man in black glanced up at the approaching crunch of running feet across the snowy grass, and Napoleon skidded to a stop, lungs burning, heart thudding.

The man — maybe 50 years old, his mop of hair white-blond with age — returned his gaze to the road and continued his slow plod toward town.

Sick to his stomach, Napoleon wrapped his hands around the ice-cold wrought-iron palings and leaned against the fence, watching the man walk away, gasping for breath and calm. Dizzy, tears burning in his eyes, he didn’t even realize the guard was behind him until he heard him speak.

“You’d better get back up to the house where you belong.”

Napoleon glanced up at the man: big, burly, hands fisted on his hips.

“Now,” the guard said, and Napoleon struck without thought. One sharp jab to the stomach and the guard doubled over, adding force to Napoleon’s blow to his nose, which broke audibly. One last chop to the back of the neck and the guard sprawled on the ground, blood trickling from his nose to melt the surrounding snow.

Napoleon quickly stripped the man of coat, gun and wallet and, with a backward glance at the clinic — there was no way to know if he was being watched, and he didn’t really care — he opened the gate and started down the road toward town.

He walked swiftly though his heart was still racing and his head pounding. Whether weak from prolonged inactivity, or (despite the lack of proof) drugged, he knew — sensed — that he was not in his usual tiptop shape. Still, it had been as easy as breathing to incapacitate the guard, who had a couple of inches and maybe 30 pounds on him. Whatever it was he did for UNCLE clearly involved unarmed combat skills.

Napoleon put on the coat and went through the man’s wallet as he walked. His only clear idea at first was to get away from the clinic, but he counted seventy-odd dollars in the wallet, and visions of New York City danced in his head. Perhaps he could find UNCLE, or someone he knew, or someone who knew him.

A number of people walked the streets of the town, unhurried, buttoned up against the light snow. Napoleon stopped a man and asked him where the bus depot was, then followed the directions to a tiny building with a bench and a bus out front, both of them empty. A sign read Bronson Bus Depot.

Napoleon went inside, up to the counter.

“When’s the next bus to New York City?”

The elderly man behind the counter looked him up and down; Napoleon withstood the scrutiny with an innocent expression on his face.

“Right about now,” the man said. “Except it goes to Trailerville, then Providence, then Hartford, maybe a couple other towns I can’t remember. Hits New York City  about 8 in the p.m.”

Napoleon dug out the guard’s wallet. “That’s just fine. How much?”

“Round trip or one way?”

“One way, mister,” Napoleon said, with such feeling the old man chuckled.

“That’s $8.50, young man.”

Fifteen minutes later Napoleon was seated in the front seat, catercorner from the driver, hunched down in his stolen coat, staring ahead and wishing the hourslong trip was over. About a dozen other people trailed onto the bus before it departed, sitting in a loose group in the middle and conversing cheerfully as the bus driver pulled out onto the town’s main street. Napoleon listened to the chatter with half an ear, alert to any remarks that he might have been followed or his “departure” from the clinic officially announced. Somehow he wasn’t surprised not to hear any; it backed up his suspicions that the place, and his presence in it, weren’t as portrayed.

He knew Mr. Waverly would never be involved in holding one of his own agents hostage. But  Mr. Waverly could have been duped, somehow, by someone. The who, how, and why of things was too far beyond Napoleon. Gnawing on those problems gave him a headache born of angry frustration.

UNCLE was a law enforcement agency, and a bomb had been planted to blow him up. Those two things seemed to indicate he had enemies, either personal or professional. That struck him as entirely right and natural. But if Dr. Monmouth was an enemy, what was she after? She’d asked him the kinds of questions that seemed, at least to him, reasonable to ask of someone who’d lost his memory. She’d even told him things, apparently freely, although obviously in his state he would have had a hard time knowing what she might be withholding.

And if she wasn’t an enemy ... why the fence, the guards? No, that didn’t add up.

Snow fell harder as the bus pulled onto the highway. Napoleon leaned into the corner of his seat and stretched out his legs. Images of New York City lulled him to sleep.

He woke briefly at each stop, then sat up and shook himself when they pulled into the Port Authority. Christmas decorations lit the streets and shopfronts.

Through the dark and snow, the scene seemed vague, not familiar, and he got off the bus and walked away from the terminal disappointed, a little anxious. Now what? He had enough money for a cab ride somewhere, maybe a cheap hotel for one night. Then what?

As the crowds around the depot dispersed to various holiday locales, Napoleon stopped on a corner, hands thrust deep into the pockets of the borrowed coat. He let his feet choose a direction and started walking. Later, if he didn’t have any luck, he’d get a cab. Right now he wanted to try his unconscious, see if it knew something he didn’t and would consider letting him in on it.

vvv

Beverly Monmouth walked into The Chicken or The Egg at 9 a.m., as out of place in a greasy spoon as an emerald in a tin can. She looked around and seated herself at the counter near the door, ordering a cup of coffee.

The handful of men in the diner, all of them obviously laborers wolfing down their breakfast, gave her a once over —most of them twice — and then paid no further attention to her.

In the tobacconist’s across the street Illya Kuryakin watched the red-head enter the diner; even from that distance he could see she was lovely enough to easily turn the head of a shy scientist of limited personal charms. He also saw the sedan pull up behind her little coupe; the two low-browed musclemen who got out had THRUSH written all over them. It looked like a set-up. Illya waited until they’d entered the diner, then left the tobacconist’s and trotted across the slushy street, ducking behind her car and pulling out a set of lockpicks.

 

Dr. Monmouth — aka Rebecca Barlow — waited 20 minutes, scowl growing all the while, ignoring her coffee and keeping her eyes on the door. Then she dug a handful of change from her purse, left it on the counter, and hurried out the door, followed by the two bruisers.

Comfortably ensconced in the trunk, Illya felt the car shift a little, heard the door slam, felt the vibrations as she started the engine. He braced himself and the car lurched into motion. She drove fast; Abernathy’s absence had clearly aroused her suspicions, and she was in a hurry to get back to wherever she’d come from.

 _Where Napoleon is_ , Illya thought, and didn’t let the voice of doubt shout that idea down. He could sense it, like a hawk stooping to its prey.

He dozed on and off during the smooth highway drive; hours later they slowed, and the motion of the car suggested a winding country road. Finally he heard the distinctive sound of gravel under tires — a driveway. He touched his holstered gun and shifted around a little to awaken his stiff body.

The car slowed gradually, halted. The engine noise stopped.

Illya heard the car door open and close, heard feet crunching on gravel, drawing away from him; he started to open the trunk, stopped when he heard a more distant door open and close. He cracked the trunk lid an inch.

The woman spoke, voice sharp with anxiety: “What is it?”

A man said, “Solo’s gone. Escaped.”

Illya nearly cried out at the flood of relief those words released in him. He pulled his suddenly trembling hand from the trunk lid lest he give himself away and huddled in a tight ball, forcing himself to breathe calmly, to listen, trying to ignore the moisture trickling hot down his face.

“What the hell happened?” she asked.

“He knocked out a guard. I don’t know how long he was gone before another man found the guard in the snow by the gate. He may’ve been gone as long as two hours.”

“Did you send someone after him?” she asked.

“Of course. And I’ve reported in to Central.” Those words had the tone of a threat. “How much does he remember?”

Illya stopped breathing to listen.

“Not much, I think. Bits and pieces.”

“My men went to town. He got on a bus to New York. They’re after him. Where would he go? UNCLE?”

“I don’t know. I believe he can’t remember where it is. He remembers very little about his life.” Her voice changed from speculation to action. “I think we should get to New York too.”

“Not yet,” he said. “Central wants to talk to you first.”

She cursed.

The man laughed. “Don’t worry. My men will find him. Come on.”

Footsteps crunched away, and a door opened and closed. Illya climbed out of the trunk, ducked down behind the car, and took a quick look around at the building and grounds before climbing into the driver’s seat, hotwiring the car, and heading along the driveway toward the open gate.

Once on the highway he pulled out his communicator. “Open Channel D.”

Waverly answered.

“Sir, Napoleon is apparently alive, but without full memory of who he is. There is a THRUSH facility a mile outside of a town called Bronson, Maine, where they were holding him. It might be advisable to get some agents out here to collect a woman named Rebecca Barlow and anyone else in her vicinity.”

“Where are you, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“On my way back to town. Napoleon got on a bus headed to New York. Some THRUSH agents are following him. You might want to have agents keep an eye out for him at the bus depot, maybe at HQ and his apartment. He might not know how to find us once he gets to town.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Find him,” Illya said. “Kuryakin out.”

vvv

“Why Mr. Solo,” the waitress said, and he nearly hugged her. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How are you this fine Christmas season?” She set the menu and a glass of water on his table.

“I’m all right,” he said, scrambling madly for questions he might ask that would help him. “It has been a while...” He squinted as if trying to remember when he was last there.

“It was summer,” she said. “You and that sweet friend of yours, the foreign fellow. You were dragging him sailing on your little boat.”  She nodded in an easterly direction.

“Oh yes,” Napoleon said. _My boat. The Pursang_. “He didn’t want to go.”

“And you told him our chowder was the best cure for seasickness in the world.”

“I remember,” he lied. “I could use some of that chowder now.”

“Comin’ right up.” She bustled off into the kitchen.

 The Pursang. He could see her in his mind’s eye. He could probably find her, even among all the other small craft moored here. It would probably be a safe place to spend the night. If they’d followed him — and he felt sure they had, though he’d seen no one — they’d probably check the more obvious places first. He doubted many people knew where he kept his boat.

He’d stopped on a few corners, amid the last straggling holiday shoppers, to look back using store windows and the like, but had seen no pursuers. Again, he had no solid reason to believe he’d been pursued, but he’d felt the need to check. He also realized he had the skills to avoid being followed. That led him to believe he’d been some sort of spy. But his shaking hands and racing heart suggested if he was any kind of spy, he wasn’t a very cool-headed one. That, on a gut level, felt wrong. _If I can just **remember**_...

“Here’s your chowder.” The bowl hit the table with a solid thunk.

“Thanks.” He picked up the spoon and napkin.

“Remember when you came back for sandwiches after?” she said conspiratorially, leaning closer. She smelled of coffee and cigarettes. “And your friend was all complaining. And you went to use the gent’s?”

“Yes,” he lied.

“I asked how it went. He said he’d had a good time. Told me not to tell you.” She grinned. “Said you’d never let him forget it.”

Napoleon looked out the window resolutely as his eyes filled. _Illya. I did forget that. But I never forgot you. I never will._

“Well, enjoy your chowder.”

“Thanks,” he choked out, fingers clenched around the spoon and napkin.

 

With the chowder still warming his insides, Napoleon walked slowly along the pier, snow blowing in his face as he scanned the names on the boats he passed. He knew her, though, the minute he spotted her, without bothering to read the name. His trim little sailboat rocked gently on the water near the end of the pier.

He climbed aboard and went into the cabin, locating and starting the generator without thought or effort. Once it was going he turned on a small lamp on the table and sat down, exhausted, looking around the tiny, cosy cabin, so familiar it made his eyes prickle. It wasn’t his home, he knew that, but it was a trusted place where he could at least rest. He thought it unlikely he’d be found here; why Dr. Monmouth and her guards would want to pursue him, he couldn’t imagine, but he felt certain that they would do so. She wanted something from him, not for his good or for UNCLE’s. He had no facts to back up the feeling, but he trusted it. If some helpful memory didn’t come back to him soon, he would simply have to find a police officer and ask to be directed to UNCLE. How hard could that be?

_If you’re being followed, it might be very hard._

He doused the lamp and curled into a corner of the seat, cold, tired, miserably aware that the only comfort he could have had in this situation — the assurance that Illya would find him — had been stolen from him. His partner had saved him from situations more dire than this; it was the only certainty he’d had in his life. He gritted his teeth as his eyes filled. Worse than losing the majority of his memory, maybe, was that he hadn’t lost enough of it to not know what it meant that Illya was gone. Oblivion would have been a blessing in place of the aching hole in his chest.

vvv

His communicator went off.

“Kuryakin.”

“Mike. Dr. Abernathy has gone to ground.”

“Where?”

“Ithaca.”

“Greece?”

“No; his parents’ house in Ithaca. I checked the records. His parents are both dead, he has no siblings, and he inherited this little suburban cottage where he’s currently, if I’m seeing clearly through these nice lace curtains, making himself a cup of tea with very shaky hands.” Mike paused. “I think our notorious doctor is innocent of all but typical male foolishness.”

“All right. You might as well come home.”

“Should I call HQ?”

“Um ... no. You’re officially off duty. It might be better if you stayed out of sight until I’ve had a chance to smooth things over with Mr. Waverly.”

“You sound different,” Mike said then.

“Different how?”

“Like someone spiked your Christmas punch. Have ... have you found anything out?”

Illya permitted himself a smile. “Napoleon is alive. Somewhere in New York. Without his full memory, and with several angry THRUSH agents after him.”

“Sounds like business as usual,” Mike said. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ll head back to town.”

“Let me know when you get here,” Illya said. “Out.”

He scanned the fronts of the buildings, thinking. Where would Napoleon go? If he remembered little, what little would he remember? There was no telling. He hadn’t gone to UNCLE, he hadn’t gone home, he hadn’t gone to Illya’s place, he hadn’t gone to the most obvious restaurants and clubs ... perhaps he knew he was being followed. Where would he want to go if he felt threatened, in need of safe harbor?

vvv

Napoleon woke up from his doze at the sound of footfalls on the pier outside. He got up, stiff from cold, and backed into a fore corner of the cabin, eyes on the narrow aft door, listening. Casting about with his mind for some sort of weapon, he recalled a handgun he kept in a compartment under the bunk. He bent quickly, released the latch and pulled the little revolver out. He preferred semiautomatics, but the gun packed a lot of power for its compact size and was unlikely to seize up from dampness; semiautomatics could be finicky that way.

He felt the boat shift a little, heard light footfalls moving slowly toward the cabin. He raised the gun, staring at the door, faintly lit from the pier lights. His hand was unsteady, his stomach churning; he knew that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, and cursed to himself as his finger curled gently against the cold trigger.

The door opened and a shape moved, framed in the doorway for a moment. Then it entered, bending over the table, reaching toward the light.

The lamp glowed into life, revealing a blackclad man, blond head turning toward him, relief erasing the scowl from his face. That well-remembered voice sighed, said:

“Napoleon.”

 _Illya_. Napoleon’s muscles turned to water. His gunhand wobbled; the revolver dropped to the floor. He slid down the wall a little and Illya, alarmed, darted across the cabin to catch him.

“Oh, God ... Illya ...” Tears flooded Napoleon’s eyes as he reached out to pull his friend into a desperate embrace.

“Napoleon...” Illya said into his ear as he eased him onto the lower bunk. “Are you hurt?”

Unable to speak, Napoleon held on, trembling, letting his face drop against his partner’s shoulder as he wept.

vvv

Edgar answered the phone on the first ring, beating Dr. Monmouth to it.

“Edgar.”

He smiled tightly at her as she glared at him and lit another cigarette. He listened, then spoke to her.

“They’re in town. He’s not at his place. They don’t think he made it to UNCLE either. Is there anywhere else you can think of? Did he mention any other place?”

Dr. Monmouth took a deep drag on the cigarette. This goddamned experiment had fallen to pieces. “He has a boat. A sailboat. We can search the registries on the computer.”

Into the phone Edgar said, “Send some of your men to the docks; have them call me when they get there. He may be on a boat.” He listened, scowling. “If you can’t take him alive, take him dead, for Christ’s sake. Just take him.” He slammed the phone down, waved Dr. Monmouth toward the door. “Let’s get a look at the registry lists.”

vvv

Illya simply held his partner. _Alive, you’re alive_ , he exulted silently, glad to be able to rejoice without witnesses, but at last, when Napoleon’s sobs eased, he drew back, holding the American firmly by the shoulders to look into that haggard, tear-blurred face.

“Are you injured? What did they do to you?”

Napoleon drank in the sight of his partner, drew breath to whisper, “They told me you were dead.”

“Oh, Napoleon.” Illya drew him in again, holding him, feeling his partner’s need — knowing his own, though he would never admit it to anyone. Only now did he fully realize the damage these past months had done to his soul.

“I’m here,” he said quietly. “I’m here.” Napoleon’s arms slid around him again, weaker than they should be but clutching with all the strength they had.

Finally, Illya said, “We’d better get you to headquarters.” He pulled Napoleon to his feet.

“Illya.”

The Russian stopped, looked at Napoleon.

“I don’t know where it is. I don’t remember.” He looked ashamed. “I don’t remember much of anything.”

Illya scowled. “You remembered this boat. You remember me.”

Napoleon shook his head. “That’s about it.”

Illya grabbed his arm. “Don’t worry about it now. We need to get you safe. THRUSH has men after you.” He watched satisfaction spread over Napoleon’s face. “What?”

Napoleon said, “Maybe I remember more than I thought.”

Illya smiled. “Let’s go home, Napoleon.”

He went to the door, opened it, poked his head out and drew it back in. “There’s a car at the end of the pier. It wasn’t there before.” He looked at Napoleon, but the confident partner of old wasn’t to be found. Along with Napoleon’s memories, much of his experience had been erased — or at least buried.

Illya drew his gun; Napoleon, following the cue, picked up the revolver he’d dropped, then leaned over to douse the lamp. Illya stopped him.

“They might know we’re in here,” Illya said. “They’ll already have seen the light; let’s not draw any more attention.” He drew out his communicator as he debated the merits of awaiting them on the boat versus meeting them out on the pier.

“Open Channel D.”

“Channel D open,” a girl replied promptly.

“Kuryakin here. Uh ... have the cavalry gone home yet?”

“Pardon?”

He explained the situation and asked for reinforcements, which were immediately dispatched.

“It’ll be about 15 minutes, Mr. Kuryakin,” the girl on the channel said.

“We’ll try to hold them off. Kuryakin out.” He put the communicator away, gave Napoleon a reassuring smile. “Are you all right?”

Napoleon looked down at the gun in his own unsteady hand. “Maybe you should just leave me here,” he said, forcing a smile. Damn it, he was scared. And he knew he shouldn’t be. Had he been himself, he knew, he wouldn’t be.

Illya snorted a soft laugh.

“I’m serious,” Napoleon said.

“I thought you said you remembered me,” Illya replied, meeting his partner’s eyes. Napoleon lowered his own gaze.

“Sorry. Just point me in the right direction.” He shrugged, took a deep breath. “I can’t guarantee my aim...”

Illya squeezed his forearm briefly. “I’ll trust your visceral memory. Let’s get outside where we can move, before they get too close.” He doused the lamp.

It was snowing again; their shoes slithered a little on the damp deck as they crept, hunched, around the cabin to the foredeck. The Pursang was between two similar sailboats; the vessels creaked and rolled in the gentle surf. Shore lights twinkled.

Illya scanned the pier, spotted movement at the land end. He looked around the boat, spotted a square of canvas on the roof of the cabin, and pushed Napoleon toward it.

“Here; under this. Lie flat. If any of them come with range, shoot.”

“Where are you going?”

“To see if I can get around back of them.” He covered his partner, hesitated — Napoleon saw the doubt and concern in his face — the turned, climbed over the port railing and hopped onto the neighboring boat.

Napoleon lay still, gun clenched in his ice-cold fist, hearing the sounds of his partner’s movement fading into quiet. He kept his eyes on the aft of the Pursang, and on the pier.

Finally he saw two men, little more than black-clad shadows in the darkness, moving stealthily along the pier. It looked as if they had pistols. Napoleon’s heart started hammering; he thought it must be audible against the hollow wood under his chest. He wrapped his other hand around his revolver and slid his finger inside the trigger guard, inhaling and exhaling with deliberate slowness.

 _Crack_!

The sharpness — the familiarity — of the truncated sound made him start and glance at his own hand, as if he’d fired accidentally.

One of the men spun to the pier, gun flying; the other man crouched, turning in a rapid circle, seeing the shooter. Another _crack_! and he crumpled into a heap on the snowy pier.

Illya, recognizable only by his blond mop of hair, came up onto the pier from a boat on the other side. He stopped, looked down at the men on the pier, and gave Napoleon a slight wave with his gun.

Gunfire — from behind — slammed against his eardrums. Illya flew backward. Napoleon flung off the canvas and twisted to see two men, on the deck of sailboat to the Pursang’s starboard, guns upraised. He fired twice, without thought, and was on his feet and running before the two men fell.

He slid along the deck and jumped onto the pier. Illya was gone. A faint splash drew him to the edge in time to see a blond head go under.

He tucked the revolver in his belt and dove into the black water; countless needles of cold pierced his body as he reached out, grabbed an arm in one fist, a handful of sweater in another. He bent his body and kicked upward, gasping for air when his head broke the suface.

He wrapped an arm around his partner’s shoulders and swam for a ladder. Illya coughed and spluttered.

“I’m all right,” he said breathlessly. Napoleon grabbed the ladder and pulled his partner close to it. Illya took hold of a rung with one hand.

“It’s just my shoulder,” he said, shaking wet hair out of his face. “I can climb.”

“Go ahead,” Napoleon panted, staying close behind his partner as Illya worked his way back up to the pier. Once on top they leaned on one another, dripping, shivering, catching their breath.

Illya looked at Napoleon. “You must’ve forgotten how much you hate swimming.”

A quartet of men with flashlights came running down the pier. The agents tensed, but one of the newcomers, seeing them, raised an arm to halt his comrades and called out:

“Someone here call for the cavalry?”

Napoleon and Illya looked around at the bodies.  The Russian spotted his gun and retrieved it.

“Your timing is impeccable,” he said, one hand pressed against his left shoulder.

vvv

Staring out at the blurring Christmas lights, Napoleon tried to control his trembling as they rode through the streets of New York. Some sane part of him knew it was just reaction, but another part — the part that remembered who he had been — was ashamed of his lack of control. If Illya noticed, he said nothing, merely sat beside him, soaked sweater removed, shoulder wrapped in a field bandage, and draped with a jacket borrowed from the agent who was now driving them back to UNCLE.

They stopped in front of a tailor’s shop. Napoleon stared at it for a moment, transfixed by a sliver of memory, then got out of the car and followed Illya down the steps, stumbling on the last one and pitching forward.

Illya, opening the door — though the sign in the window said “closed” — caught his arm.

“Are you —” he stopped himself, feeling Napoleon’s tremors and guessing the cause. His partner had been through a series of traumas without his usual armor of years of experience. In many ways it was as if he were a rookie agent again, or a civilian.

“Hold on,” Illya said, low, drawing his partner inside and through the dressing cubicle as the everpresent Mr. Del Floria worked the steam machine.

The girl at the desk gasped as they entered, rising from her seat, white-faced.

“M-m-mister Solo...” she sank back down again, remembering her duty, though her hands trembled as she pinned their badges on their lapels.

Napoleon looked around the tiny metal cubicle. A little Christmas tree sat on a table in the corner, decorated with paper-clip tinsel and little stars cut from manila file folders. He felt calmer with the steel walls surrounding him. Safer.

Unfortunately, his nerves had apparently been the only thing keeping him going. He felt lightheaded now, unsteady; he leaned heavily on Illya as his partner led him through the corridors.

vvv

Dr. Baker stared at the two men who entered the med section, but — to his credit — only for a moment. Then he was on his feet, shouting for a nurse while guiding the two agents to a room.

“For a dead man you look reasonably well, Mr. Solo,” he said as he helped Illya ease Napoleon onto a bed. “To what do I owe the honor of being made witness to a resurrection?”

Illya explained what he knew as succinctly as possible. Napoleon cradled his aching head in his hands, listening to his partner’s voice. The familiar sound was balm to his ragged nerves. _He’s alive. He’s alive._ He kept repeating the mantra to himself, staring at his partner hungrily.

“Drugged?” Dr. Baker asked. Illya shrugged.

“Yes,” Napoleon ground out, raising his heavy head. Illya and the doctor both looked at him. He looked back at the doctor, warily, not recalling him.

“Do you by any chance know what was used?”

He shook his head. A nurse came into the room, followed by Lisa Rogers, Mr. Waverly’s assistant. The pretty brunette stared at Napoleon for a moment, then said to Illya, “Mr. Waverly would like a report immediately.”

Illya started toward the door.

“Illya—” Napoleon called out before he could think or stop himself.

“Don’t trust me, eh?” Dr. Baker said. “You remember that all right.”

Illya hesitated, watching his partner as the doctor persuaded him to lie down.

“Later,” he told Lisa.

“But—”

“Later,” Illya said, ice-cold. Lisa hesitated, shrugged, left. Illya came to the bedside, where Dr. Baker gave him a look but said nothing.

“Go ahead,” Napoleon said, embarrassed by his weakness _. You’re home, you’re safe — what’s the problem?_

“It can wait,” Illya said flatly. Napoleon grasped his wrist briefly.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being so ...”

“Napoleon,” Illya said, tone gentle and exasperated simultaneously. “Shut up and let them check you out.”

“Sound medical advice,” Dr. Baker said. “Mr. K, if you’ll scoot over a bit...”

vvv

“Well?” Illya asked. He’d waited, out of the way but in sight, during the examination, so he already had a fair idea of what the doctor would say, but he wanted Napoleon to hear all of it out loud; he was in no state to think secrets were being kept from him. Both men had changed into medical scrubs, their soggy clothes dealt with by a nurse, and Illya’s bullet wound — a deep graze — had been tended to by another nurse.

“Weak, malnourished, and yes, there’re physical signs of repeated dosage with some kind of sedative. It’s probably wearing off right now, which would explain why he’s shaking and a little ...” He looked at Napoleon. “A little disoriented. Other than that no physical trauma.”

He took the needle the nurse had brought.

“This is a very mild sedative,” he said, eyes on the syringe. “I want you to get a good night’s sleep tonight; tomorrow morning the psych team will come in, open your skull, pull out your brain, slice it thinly and grill it, with some onions and a white wine sauce. Your choice of vegetables.”

Napoleon eyed the syringe, trying not to edge away or panic.

“You can trust Dr. Baker,” Illya said matter of factly, catching his reaction. “Despite all appearances to the contrary.”

“ _Spasiba_ , Mr. K,” Dr. Baker muttered.

Napoleon raised his eyes to his partner’s, took a slow, calming breath.

“There. Take your medicine like a good boy.” Dr. Baker injected him quickly.

“Sleep,” he said. “The ghouls will be all over you in the morning. Welcome back, Mr. S.”

He departed, dimming the light as he went. Illya settled into the chair by the head of the bed.

“Try to relax, Napoleon,” Illya’s voice came, warm and comforting, out of the darkness. “You’re safe here.”

Napoleon lay back and tried to force his eyes shut. They wouldn’t shut.

“Turn the light back up,” he said. Illya got up, did so, came back to the bedside.

“What is it?”

Napoleon shook his head. “I need to see you,” he said, low, ashamed again at his own weakness, but too shaken to deny it.

Illya pulled the chair around so that he was facing Napoleon, sat down, eyes never leaving his partner’s. He reached out and wrapped one hand around Napoleon’s wrist.

“I’m here,” he said. “I won’t leave.”

The last thing Napoleon saw before sinking into sleep was his partner, silent, calmly watching him.

 

Illya heard a movement at the door some time later and turned to see Mr. Waverly. He rose, meeting his superior in the doorway, dimming the light in the room along the way.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Illya said. “Napoleon was rather disoriented. He needed me here.”

Fully expecting a reprimand, Illya was surprised to hear Mr. Waverly say matter of factly:

“Of course. I quite understand. I’m very pleased to have Mr. Solo back. Well done, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Uh ... thank you, sir.”

“We do need you to make a report at some point, Mr. Kuryakin,” Mr. Waverly said, the censure in his tone so mild as to be unheard-of. “Our people here have cleaned up the mess you and your partner left at the docks, and our men in Maine have captured Dr. Beverly Monmouth, also known as Rebecca Barlow, and a mid-level THRUSH official named Basil Edgar, but they aren’t currently in the mood to talk with us, and there is still a great deal I’d like explained.”

“I’d rather not leave here tonight, sir,” Illya admitted, glancing back into the now-darkened room. “If Napoleon wakes in the state he’s in and finds me gone...”

“Quite, quite. In the morning then. I’ll have a word with Dr. Baker before I go.”

 

Christmas Day

 

A paltry six hours later Dr. Baker poked his nose into the room to see Solo still soundly asleep. Kuryakin was too. He sat sideways in the chair, his upper body cushioned on the side of the bed, head resting on one arm, his other hand wrapped loosely around Solo’s wrist. Dr. Baker chuckled silently to himself and went on about his rounds.

vvv

Napoleon opened his eyes to a flat white ceiling. UNCLE Medical was his first thought. Relief washed over him — had it all been a dream?

Illya slept next to him, draped awkwardly across a chair, leaning on the bedside, his hand over Napoleon’s forearm. Napoleon smiled, remembering his fears of the night before — and the other fear, the fear that he’d lost his partner forever. And how Illya had simply been there, not censuring or judging him for his fear. Just holding him, anchoring him.

 _Thank you_ , he thought, to God, or the gods, or the ceiling, or whatever. _Thank you. I know I don’t deserve it, but thank you._

He reached over and tousled his partner’s hair.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Illya’s eyes opened, blankly at first — that made Napoleon wonder how long it had been since the Russian had slept — and he sat up, grimacing at his stiffness.

He peered at his partner. “How do you feel?”

“Alive.” Napoleon smiled. “Hungry.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Yes.” The smile faded as Napoleon again went through the now-familiar casting about in his mind for memories. He shook his head.

“What?”

“Some things are coming back ... I think coming here, or the drugs wearing off, jogged a few things. But I’m still ... there are still big holes.” He met Illya’s gaze, determined not to show fear.

The Russian got up, patting his arm. “First things first. Breakfast. Then we can start plugging those holes in your memory.”

Napoleon nodded; not until Illya had left the room did he let himself think about what might happen to him if they couldn’t.

vvv

Mike was in Illya’s and Napoleon’s shared office, pencil and clipboard in hand, when Illya bounded into the room at midmorning. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but Mike found himself grinning in response to the gleeful energy that radiated from the Russian.

_Someday, I’d like to have a partner who cares half that much about me. Who’d do half as much as Illya Kuryakin would do for Napoleon Solo._

“Good morning,” he said, waving the clipboard. “I was trying to figure out how to explain my part in this in such a way that I won’t be immediately made to walk the plank.”

Illya sat down at his desk and started shuffling papers. “Even if Mr. Waverly were in such a bloodthirsty mood, he’d have to plough through a defensive line composed of most of the women who work for him to reach you.” He glanced up, a smile warming his voice. “You are going to be the recipient of a great deal of feminine gratitude for your help in bringing Napoleon back from the dead.”

Mike raised his eyebrows speculatively. “Hmm ... it might be worth being made to walk the plank ... how is Mr. Solo?”

“I think he’ll be all right,” Illya said. “No visible scars.” The scars would be on the inside this time. For both of them. But it wouldn’t be the first time, and — thanks to whatever god looked after spies — it wouldn’t be the last.

He got up from his desk, came around to sit on the edge.

“Speaking of gratitude, thank you, Mike.” He seemed about to say more, then stopped. “I won’t forget.”

Mike grinned, feeling the emotion that the Russian couldn’t bring himself to say; it was obvious from his entire manner that having his partner back had restored his heart and soul.

“Just help me phrase this report so I look like an intrepid hero instead of an insubordinate punk, and that’ll be thanks enough.” He waved the clipboard. Illya chuckled and said:

“Let me take a look.”

vvv

That afternoon Mr. Waverly, Illya, and Drs. Pirelli and Baker gathered in Waverly’s office for a status report. None of them voiced any complaints about working on Christmas Day.

After Dr. Baker told Mr. Waverly his CEA had no severe physical damage, Dr. Pirelli took over.

“His memory is spotty. It’s not completely gone but the holes are large, for both long and short term memories. We think we can fix this. We’ll use a stimulant we’ve developed for our amnesia pill. They’ve been drugging him; a mild drug to keep him disoriented and passive. That’s worn off. By tonight he should be pretty close to normal.”

Mr. Waverly asked, “How close?”

“Well, at least we’ll know what he remembers and what he doesn’t. The drug they gave him should have no lasting ill effects; they wanted what was in his head, is my guess, and hoped the blow to his skull would loosen things sufficiently for them to get it. They weren’t trying to destroy his mind.”

Dr. Baker took it up. “Yes; unfortunately we don’t know how much damage the actual physical trauma did. Our amnesia antidote is excellent at restoring psychosomatic memory loss. Then we’ll have a better idea how much he’s lost ... physiologically.”

“You mean permanently,” Illya said. Dr. Pirelli looked at him. Dr. Baker nodded.

“That’s what I mean.”

vvv

Napoleon watched Dr. Baker filling the hypodermic, this time with a yellowish fluid.

“We developed this as an antidote to our amnesia drug. Do you remember it?” he asked, not looking at Napoleon.

“Very funny,” Napoleon growled. Dr. Baker hesitated.

“Sorry. I think it’ll help, though. The physical damage seems to be minimal, but their keeping you drugged didn’t help their cause. This will knock you out for several hours, but when you awaken you should be clearer in your mind.”

“What are the side effects?” Napoleon asked.

“You haven’t forgotten everything, have you?” Dr. Baker said. “You remember to be suspicious of needles.”

Illya smiled slightly.

Dr. Baker continued. “You’ll be tired and shaky for a few days. Also, your hair will fall out, and possibly one or both of your eyes, and your feet will shrink, oh, three or four shoe sizes. That’s all. Ready?”

Napoleon nodded. Much as he hated needles, and being drugged, he’d put up with a lot more for the chance to get back who he was. He had a home somewhere, friends, and a job, right here in this half-familiar building. He wanted all that back.

“You might as well go home,” Dr. Baker told Illya. “He’ll sleep like a log for a few hours, probably wake up around eight or so.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Illya asked him.

“No. Go home. Get some rest. Apparently that’s what I’ll be doing.” He offered his partner an encouraging smile, relieved he was calm enough to not have to hang onto his partner’s hand like a child going to his first doctor’s appointment.

“I’ll be back tonight,” Illya promised.

vvv

Illya returned to UNCLE headquarters at about half past eight, having accomplished a great deal in that time. The receptionist informed him that Mr. Waverly wanted him in his office immediately. Illya let her pin his badge on, expression never altering. But when the door closed behind him, he ran.

Everyone in the room — Mr. Waverly, Dr. Pirelli, Dr. Baker and Napoleon — looked up in surprise as he burst in, slightly out of breath.

Illya inhaled, ran a hand through his hair — still damp from the snow falling outside — and spoke calmly. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“You’re late, Mr. Kuryakin,” Mr. Waverly said. “The debriefing is over with.”

Illya shot an anxious, irresistible glance at Napoleon, a glance that became a stare. Napoleon wasn’t smiling, but he also wasn’t fooling Illya, who recognized the glint in his eye.

“It’s back?” he said, breaking into a rare smile. Napoleon grinned in response.

“It’s back — including the fact that you owe me for dinner four months ago at Francesco’s in Milan.”

Failing completely to locate a scowl to plaster over his face, Illya groused, “You _would_ remember that.”

The doctors chuckled. Mr. Waverly harrumphed.

“Yes, well, now that everything is back to normal ...”

“Am I sprung, sir?” Napoleon asked. The chief of section one looked to the doctors.

“There could be side effects,” Dr. Pirelli said speculatively. “Reactions...”

“I’d like to keep him under observation for a while...” Dr. Baker began.

Napoleon got up.

“I’ll drive you home,” Illya said.

Dr. Baker muttered, “I hate being hated.” He knew that most agents had serious issues about trust, deep fear of perceived helplessness, and a more than healthy sense of paranoia. Whether desirable or not, he knew it to be an inevitable side-effect of the job. He still didn’t enjoy being treated like Dr. Frankenstein.

“I’m used to it,” Dr. Pirelli said.

“We don’t hate you,” Napoleon said, unconvincingly.

“After all, it is Christmas,” Mr. Waverly put in, presumably to mollify the doctors. To Napoleon he added, “Dr. Baker informs me you’ll need a couple of days of rest, Mr. Solo.” His tone was grudging. Clearly he thought the past two months’ “rest” sufficient. “Take 48 hours to reacquaint yourself with ... yourself.”

“Yes sir. Merry Christmas, gentlemen.” Napoleon took hold of Illya’s arm and steered him out of the office.

“Let’s go,” he hissed. “In another minute he’s going to decide I’m recovered enough to go on an assignment, and I’m starving.” He paused long enough to take a delighted Lisa Rogers’ hand and kiss it, then continued pushing Illya along the corridor. “I know it’s hardly traditional, but what do you say to Chinese take-out? Your treat?”

“You’re back to your old self all right,” Illya said, battling a gleeful smile.

Napoleon shrugged. “I don’t have any money.”

“Let’s stop in the office so I can collect my coat,” Illya said.

Mike was finishing up his report when they entered. He examined Napoleon with great interest as the two men approached.

“Napoleon, this is Mike Beck. We worked on some assignments together. He helped me find you.”

Mike and Napoleon shook hands.

“He’s exaggerating,” Mike said. He thought Solo looked tired, haggard, despite his smile. “I wasn’t much help at all.”

“Don’t contradict your superior,” Illya said. Napoleon watched the exchange, and Mike saw his smile turn stiff, forced. He almost chuckled; the great Napoleon Solo was jealous that his partner had had a new partner, even temporarily? Even superhuman agents, apparently, were all too human.

“If I was any help at all,” Mike went on, “I’m glad. I’ve learned a lot from your partner, Mr. Solo.”

The smile became more genuine. “So have I, Mike. And I’m still learning.”

Illya collected his coat. “This meeting of the Kuryakin admiration society can break up anytime. I’m hungry too.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin.” Mike gathered his files, not surprised he wasn’t invited to join them. He was a little sorry — but only a little. He had a Christmas date with Karen.

vvv

Napoleon was silent until they piled into Illya’s car.

“He reminds me of me,” Napoleon said.

Illya didn’t have to ask who he meant.

“No wonder you two got along so well.” Napoleon was discomfitted, and amused, to find himself a bit jealous. After all he’d been through, all he’d lost and regained, he felt on top of the world (if a little bleary-eyed) — but it still bothered him, just a tiny bit, that Illya had had another partner, and that it had, apparently, worked out well.

“He’s nothing like you,” Illya said, sounding surprised.

Flattered, Napoleon said, “No?”

“No. He’s courteous, professional, punctual, obedient...”

“Oh.” Napoleon allowed his deflation to show on his face. “Maybe you’d rather keep him as a partner.”

Illya said nothing, very pointedly, but Napoleon kept his expression contrite, even somber.

“I’ll understand,” he said, not looking at his partner. “I know you’ve found me rather ... trying ... at times.”

“Napoleon —”

He was trying not to laugh now. “All I want is for you to be happy—”

“Napoleon, shut up.”

Napoleon chuckled. “Does this mean you’re not completely sick of me yet?” He risked a glance at his partner.

Illya cupped an ear. “Sorry. I can’t hear you over the violins.”

They stopped at Chin’s and collected a bewildering variety of dishes. Illya noticed Napoleon was silent for much of the drive; obviously the drug, or simple weariness and reaction, were taking their toll.

Finally, when they got into the elevator of Napoleon’s building, Napoleon said:

“Mr. Waverly told me you were acting CEA.”

“Yes.” Illya redistributed bags of steaming hot, wonderful-smelling Chinese food. “So?”

“ _Acting_ CEA? For two months? What happened? Didn’t Waverly trust you?”

“I insisted,” Illya said flatly. “He didn’t want to lose me to Section Five,so he acquiesced.”

“Section Five? You threatened to go back to the labs? What for?”

Illya sighed. “Because I didn’t want to be named CEA, of course.”

“Why not?” Napoleon grinned. “You could’ve afforded a nicer place with the raise.”

Illya said nothing. The elevator doors opened and they walked out. Seriously, Napoleon said:

“You were doing all the work. Why not take the title?”

Illya shook his head, muttered something, turning away.

“What?”

“It’s your title. I don’t want it.” They stopped at Napoleon’s apartment.

Napoleon gazed at his partner’s stubborn profile, understanding, wondering, humbled. _What did I do to deserve such loyalty? No wonder they couldn’t make me forget this._

“Damn fool sentimental Russian,” Napoleon said, grinning. He elbowed his partner, making Illya look at him. “I love you too.”

Illya shook his head, fighting a smile. Having Napoleon there beside him made him feel reborn. He had no intention of admitting that out loud, of course.

“Hold these.” He shoved the bags of food into Napoleon’s hands and unlocked the door, not turning on the light in the hallway. Hands full, Napoleon couldn’t do it himself, so he simply headed for the kitchen, reveling in the familiar feel of his walls around him. _Good thing I have a long lease, or this place would’ve been gone by now._

He stopped at the kitchen doorway, caught by the glitter of lights coming from the living room. Hastily depositing the food on his kitchen counter, he went into the living room.

A tree, fully seven feet tall and sumptuously decorated with glass bulbs and tinsel, stood in the corner, multicolored lights twinkling in the darkened apartment.

Napoleon’s throat closed and his eyes prickled; the lights blurred.

He felt Illya come into the room behind him.

“Is it all right?” Illya said, almost shyly. “I wasn’t quite sure how ...”

Unable to trust his voice, Napoleon turned and enveloped his startled partner in a hug. After a moment Illya returned the embrace. Napoleon found himself saying:

“I never forgot you.” He wasn’t sure himself what he meant; it was all he could say. He let go of his partner. “Not for one second. No matter what they did to me, I didn’t forget you.”

Illya said softly, “Nor I you.”

Fearful he’d break down and weep, Napoleon shook his partner, lightening his tone with an effort. “When did you do this? When did you learn _how_ to do this?”

 “Today. I asked April and Lisa. They offered to help, but ...”

“But you wanted to do it all yourself. As usual.” Grinning, Napoleon shook him again, gently, let him go. “Merry Christmas, my friend.”

“Happy Christmas, Napoleon. I didn’t get you a present—”

“Oh yes you did,” Napoleon replied. “You did.”

 

_—30—_

 


End file.
